


Miles and Miles away

by Domino62, Miles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John, BDSM, Burnplay, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dog Tags, Established Relationship, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Guns, Honey, Infidelity, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Original Male Character - Freeform, Reminiscing, Scones, Sexting, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Straight Razors, Strangulation, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Tea, Texting, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domino62/pseuds/Domino62, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miles/pseuds/Miles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected text from a long lost "friend" has painful repercussions for one Consulting Detective.  Captain Watson is NOT amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as just a bit of fun, back and forth between me and Miles, and then........
> 
> ♥♡

In the cab, John Watson's silence spoke volumes. Sherlock knew he had been less than pleasant at the crime scene, but he'd solved the case, as usual, and didn't see why John would choose this time to give him the cold shoulder. Yes, he'd made a few jokes about the jumper John was wearing, Anderson's incompetence, Lestrade's ugly tie, but it was all in fun, and certainly not atypical behaviour for him at a crime scene.

Whatever was going on with John, he certainly wasn't going to feed that beast trying to get the man to talk to him. For all he knew this could be about the lack of milk in the flat. Whatever the cause, his pouty partner would come out of his sulk soon enough after a nice cup of tea and if he didn't, Sherlock would enjoy the silence and perhaps complete an experiment or two he'd been neglecting.

Upon arriving at 221B, Sherlock gapes as John flies out of the cab leaving him to pay the fare. Odd, but not unprecedented, perhaps he had no cash on him. Sherlock takes a moment to collect his thoughts before heading up the stairs. By now the tea will have been poured and maybe a biscuit or two would accompany it. He walks slowly up the steps expecting, at worse, to get no tea and another lecture on etiquette. What he does not expect is to see John holding a ball-gag in his hand and a death glare in his eye, just daring him to open his mouth.

Sherlock's confusion must show on his face because the next thing he hears is, "Kneel, you sassy little whore!" Sherlock kneels down on the floor without hesitation, but does not bow his head to the Captain. Instead he smirks, "Seriously, John? All this because I insulted your jumper?" he asks before he puts on his gag. John does not respond, so Sherlock stills himself and waits for instructions. This is all part of their new game. For whatever reason, his Cranky Captain feels the need to dominate him, John likes it, he likes it and the sex has been surprisingly satisfying in the six months or so since they'd taken this turn. He figures he'll just play along and hopefully get a good shag out of it.

Of course, Sherlock had known all along that John Watson was about as "straight" as he was tall. He had tipped the Captain over the edge of doubt on the night he'd slipped him some ecstasy and put "Brokeback Mountain" on the DVD player. They'd been shagging, vigorously and frequently ever since and, much to Sherlock's delight, the dominant part of John's personality leaped to the fore the first time he took the detective's riding crop in hand. So, whatever was going on with his lover this night, submitting seemed to be the quickest way to get the storm to pass. Besides, in sub space his mind stops whirling for a bit and he could always use a bit of THAT.

John Watson pours himself a shot of scotch, throws it back and grabs a wooden spoon. "I think you need to be reminded of how to behave towards others at a crime scene, Sherlock, and you will remember, my dear. I'll make sure of it." he says in a cool, controlled tone. Sherlock turns to look behind him and is stunned by the first blow. "Eyes Front, you cock slut!" The pain takes a just a heartbeat to hit him. It was a hard strike. He tries to breathe in but the gag makes it difficult. The rush this game brings is so strong that his mind has no say in it. When John takes control, Sherlock shuts his mind down and, for once, he just lets himself feel.

"There's no safe word tonight, so if this is too much for you, I'm afraid you'll just have to suffer as I have all bloody day!", says John with another firm strike to Sherlock's ass. "Now, strip and get back on your knees. You have 30 seconds. That should give you time to ponder what's coming next." Sherlock raises his eyebrows and feels himself harden. Oh, this might be very fun after all.

He decides to use his 30 seconds creatively and does a show for his doctor as he strips, looking longingly into John's eyes all the time. He knows he can be sassy, even without words. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he has misread his situation. His sassy striptease only earns him 3 hard blows to his ass with the spoon, all in the exact same spot. That stings furiously. He winces and looks at John timidly while returning to the floor. "Oh," growls Captain Watson, "Do I have the FULL attention of the most brilliant mind in London at long last?"  

Sherlock watches as his furious flat mate casually walks to the kitchen and turns on the front gas burner on the stove. Upon his return, he bends down at the waist near Sherlock’s face and says, "It appears a confession is in order, yeah?" and holds up Sherlock's mobile phone as if to indicate that it was now "Exhibit A" in this mock trial. Uh Oh. Sherlock initially thought John's demeanour was all about his rudeness at the crime scene. Now he realizes John had only wanted him to believe that in order to get him vulnerable. And then Sherlock feels his blood go cold. John knows.

He knows and this was  _not_ going to end well for Sherlock. This was more than "a bit not good".   Hoping he can talk himself out of the situation, if they speak "man to man" Sherlock attempts to stand. He is pushed down violently, flat on his chest, by one heavy black boot. "You will submit" John says, coldly, removing his boot from Sherlock's bare back and admiring the red print it leaves behind. "You will submit to me, Sherlock Holmes or I will leave you… tonight... for good this time. Choose, _now_!"

Sherlock returns to his hands and knees, feeling sweat starting to run down his back. Well, he was royally fucked now. The thought of losing his Captain was unacceptable. He would endure whatever came next. And he was pretty sure that John knew that as well.   John remains still for a very long time, and the anticipation starts to take its toll on the detective. After what seems like a century, John leaves the room to fetch something he'll be needing for this.

When he comes back he finds Sherlock exactly in the same position he left him. He chuckles at that, but quickly resumes his preparations. He goes straight to the kitchen and starts making noises that do not help Sherlock one bit to deduce what's going on.   Soon he returns to Sherlock and dangles his Army dog tags briefly in front of his face. "Did you forget these again, Pet?" Sherlock attempts to answer through the gag. John removes it out of frustration. "You were saying?"

Sherlock takes three deep breaths, then gasps, "John, uh, I mean, Captain Watson, Sir! I swear to you. HE texted me, I swear. I know your rules. I would never..." The slap comes from his left. "You responded and apparently agreed to meet him... didn't you?"  

Sherlock nods, very slightly. His eyes look up into John's, silently pleading. John just smiles that very small, scary smile he gets when he's livid and says "Put the gag back on, Sherlock". Once that is accomplished, he grabs a hand full of his dark curls and twists, making Sherlock whimper loudly through the gag. He releases his grip and squats down in front of Sherlock, grasping his chin and forcing his head up to look him in the eye.

"I've got just a few more questions for you, kitten, ok?" he asks, stroking Sherlock's hair with his free hand. The detective blinks rapidly, trying not to cry. His breath catches in his throat. This is so very bad. "Ah, ah, ah, none of that now, Sweet", John warns, "You have misbehaved and now you need to face the music, don't you?" Sherlock nods meekly and closes his eyes. "Look at me, Babe. I need to see your eyes now." Sherlock opens his eyes and a single tear runs down the right side of his face. John catches the tear with his thumb, which he then put in his own mouth briefly, closing his eyes at the taste.

"Did you let him fuck you, Sherlock?" John asks, quietly once again grasping a hand full of curls. The dark head shakes wildly from side to side eyes growing bigger. "Ok. Good Boy. Thank you. Now, did you put your mouth on him?" Again, more adamant shaking of the head in his grasp.

"Ah, well then, very good. Ok. One last question, Pet." John purrs resuming the stroking of his hair. Did you allow that mongrel to put his mouth on _you_?" Sherlock closes his eyes and feels his checks flush. He cannot lie to John. Well, he _could_ , but he didn't want to. He wouldn't allow himself to be untruthful to the man who held his heart. John stroked the side of Sherlock's face with his free hand. "Yes, yes you did, Pet. You let him desecrate the thing that I hold most dear. Did you not think I could smell him on you? You let him violate my most sacred possession with his filthy mouth and you probably let him put his hands all over you as well".

John pulled Sherlock to him by his hair until they were cheek to cheek. He could hear and feel the increase in John's respiration and feel the man shaking. After a long, terrifying pause, John says softly into his ear, "And that, Sherlock, THAT I simply cannot abide".

John releases Sherlock’s hair, pushes him away from him firmly and stands over him with his hands on his hips. "Miles is not allowed to play with my toys, Pet." John's voice was starting to get louder with each word. "As you very well know, Sherlock, I DO NOT FUCKING SHARE!" he roared. Sherlock threw his hands over his head to hide from the sound. After a pause, John continued, firmly, but now in control.

"You know I don't share and yet you, answered his text. You met him. You listened to whatever line of bull shit he was selling and then you let him put his filthy little whore mouth on _my_ property!"

Sherlock curled up into the fetal position, without even realizing he'd done so. John paced around him in full Army Captain mode, his words clipped and cold. "This proves to me", he continued, "that you cannot be trusted. Miles wants you back, Sherlock. You know it's true. He's trying to lure you back, and that cannot be allowed."

John stalks back to the kitchen, and even while holding his dog tags above the blue flame of the gas stove, he does not take his eyes off of the man on the floor. Sherlock sneaks a glance over his shoulder and a frightened whine escapes him. "Get back in position Sherlock, or by God I'll make you wish you had!" Sherlock complies then hears John approach him from behind. He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes, heart pounding.

And then John is whispering into his ear, soft as a lullaby, "Since you apparently cannot remember who it is who OWNS you now, I will have to remind you AND Miles in the clearest terms possible". 

The pain hits Sherlock like he's been stabbed. He realizes that John is holding the hot metal dog tags flat on his bare ass cheeks, one on each side. He's branding him, marking his territory permanently. Sherlock moans through his gag but makes no attempt to escape the pain. After seconds (minutes? hours?) the burning metal is tossed aside.

"Now, I've marked you, Sherlock. You've made me do this. Don't ever forget that. This is your doing. If you are stupid enough to drop your pants for anyone else, they will see my name on your ass. If that causes you embarrassment, I'm afraid you have only yourself to blame."

John grabs his hair again, pulling him to his feet then directing him to the bath room. He gives Sherlock the hand mirror and begins rummaging through the medicine cabinet over the sink. "Look at them", he snaps and Sherlock does as he's told. The burns really don't look all that bad, probably wouldn't even scar, he thinks. "Don't worry", John muttered, "If they don't scar properly, I'll do it again!" he said with a slap to Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's mouth drops open.

It's like John had read his mind. "If you're not extremely careful, Sherlock, I may mark the front of you as well. Now, bend over." he orders and applies a thick cream that took the majority of the pain away almost instantly.

"We use this in the hospital burn unit. You can only get it there. It's worth a fortune and I'm really not sure that you deserve it. Now, go lay on your bed. Face down." He said with a hard slap of his hand just below the burn on Sherlock's left ass cheek. "We're not done… talking." 

Sherlock can barely walk he's so tense and apprehensive, but he manages to get to the room and lies on the bed carefully. Now that the pain has faded, he realizes he's still about half hard. And just, what does that say about him, he wonders. Could this night still end with them reconciling and getting off? Was John just playing the game or was he really as mad as he appeared? Whatever the case, there's only one thing in his mind right now. He mustn't say or do anything, OK, anything _else,_ to cause his Captain to leave him. Nothing else matters but that.

He waits for him, for eons, before hearing the familiar cadence of his army doctor's footsteps coming down the hall again. He turns away from the door and waits some more.    The riding crop snaps down just above the burn on the right side. "Who owns you, Sherlock?" Captain Watson asks, sternly. Sherlock gasps, then cries out "You do, Sir. Only you"

John's Army dog tags are returned to Sherlock's neck and then the riding crop bites again. "Those tags stay on. Do you understand?" Sherlock nods. "Y-yes, Sir" he whimpers. He isn't even in any pain, just so upset at having disappointed his Captain. The tears come again, and he sobs out loud in embarrassment and shame. John drops the riding crop at once and sits on the bed, gently. "Don't cry, Love. It's over now.  Come on, now. You're OK"

John pets his head, gently, like a parent soothing their child. Sherlock composes himself and reaches a hand out. John takes it and kisses it, gently rolling Sherlock onto his side, facing him. Then he stands and removes his jumper, placing it over Sherlock's torso. "You can sleep if you'd like, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere".

After a few minutes he asks, "Do you want some tea?" Sherlock reaches out again with one hand while pulling the jumper to his face with the other. He curls back into the fetal position. John can hear his muffled sobs and sits down next to him, again. He strokes Sherlock's arm and shoulder murmuring to him to hush and get under the blankets. Sherlock complies, still clinging to the jumper with his eyes shut. John climbs in next to him, fully clothed and stares at the ceiling. What the Hell is he supposed to do with this untameable mad man now?

***********************

In the morning, John slips from bed, makes himself some tea and sits in his arm chair to read the news. After about an hour, Sherlock approaches the chair in nothing but his dressing gown, kneels next to it, and rests his cheek on John's knee. He shifts his body a little, flinching as his ass reminds him of the pain, then stills. Like a dog who’s been caught eating garbage, he looks up at his master. Their eyes meet briefly before they both look away. John puts a hand over Sherlock's head, and lets his fingers disappear in the soft black curls.

"Tell me why, Sherlock. Why did you do it?" he finally asks.

"I don't know. He means nothing to me, John. You  _know_ that. I thought he had information I needed. That's all."

"How can I trust you, Sherlock?"

"I cannot answer that for you. But you know I'm yours and I always will be yours until the day you grow tired of… me."

"You  _are_ mine, and he needs to know that too. You know what he wants, I know what he wants and we both know  _you_ are weak, Sherlock. When I'm busy at the clinic and you get bored, you are prone to insane decisions to entertain yourself." (The soft stroking of Sherlock's head continues, as if he was a fucking cocker spaniel, but he stays still, obedient).

"I want you to sit here and think about the chain of events that brought us here. Do not speak until I ask you to. Understand?" Sherlock nods and curses himself for telling John anything about Miles in the first place. But sentiment had gotten the better of him, as it usually did when John Watson wanted something from him.

Their late night pillow talks often became confessions of ancient history. As boring and ordinary as it sounded, it felt natural with John. In fact, their whole life together had felt entirely right. Once they'd finally accepted that neither of them would ever be satisfied with anyone else, the rest was just mechanics. John had proven to be a quick learner of those new mechanics and one of the best lovers Sherlock could recall. His recall, of course, was not entirely clear due to his years of drugging and clubbing before he'd been saved by a certain Detective Inspector. And those reckless, sordid, wasted years encompassed the story of Sherlock and Miles.

If temptation had a name, it would be Miles. Cocaine and nicotine had nothing on the man. He was the nastiest most satisfying drug Sherlock had ever experienced. The high was delicious but the crash was damn near fatal. Every. Single. Time. They'd spent two torturous, glorious years together before Mycroft had arranged for Miles to disappear, or so Sherlock assumed. Mycroft would never admit it, but it was certainly the kind of thing his brother was not only capable of doing, but which he would do with relish.

Sherlock nods again, this time to himself, then makes his mind revisit the scene of his crime. When he initially received the text from "Miles" the other day he thought Mycroft was testing him. It was just the type of stunt the government official would pull to be sure his little brother was on the straight and narrow. So, he ignored it, like a good soldier would and his good Captain would expect.

Only when the second text came, this time with a photograph of a very distinct tattoo, did Sherlock let himself believe his worst bad habit was really coming back to try and claim him. He agreed to meet him, in public, just to see how fast he could make him go away. He thought, in his clean and sober form, that he'd be impervious to Miles' "charms". He thought he could rationally explain to him that he was clean now and in a committed relationship.

After all, Miles was intelligent and somewhat familiar with the ways of polite society and decorum, etc. Sherlock thought he had the situation under control, as usual. He soon realized, however, that he was completely unprepared for the intensity of Miles' desire to get them alone once again.

His defences were no match for the incessant barrage of flattery, innuendo and Drakar Noir. In hindsight, accepting wine with lunch was his first mistake. The "accidental" spilling of his second glass all over his pants had been a ruse, he now knew, to get Sherlock into the men's room. Why had he not seen it coming a mile away? Miles had never been one who concerned himself with privacy or discretion where Sherlock was concerned, and the long absence had apparently only made him bolder. He'd gotten them both into the disabled stall before Sherlock knew what hit him and then proceeded to perform fellatio on the stunned, slightly buzzed detective like his very life depended on it!

Sherlock tried to stop him, or at least he thinks (hopes?), he did. Oh Hell, who was he kidding? No one sucked cock like Miles. Christ, it was like he invented it! The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes with not much as a "wait" or "no" uttered by the man with the supposed "genius" IQ. The only sounds he did recall were Miles' hums of elation and his own grunts of release. He could have chastised the man when it was over, but protesting an  _astoundingly_ good blow job after the fact seemed incredibly rude, even for him.

So Sherlock did his best to clean his pants and his conscience and get away from the whole thing before it got any worse. He left Miles laughing in the bathroom stall and fled to the street thanking God for his luck in getting taxis. He assumed his quick exit would send the desired message of "leave me alone", but he had not anticipated Miles sending that infernal 3rd text! That one, containing the incriminating "white stain" photo and "God, I've missed that taste. See you soon" message had arrived on the one day he actually took a long, hard nap in the flat.

John, thinking Lestrade might be texting about a case had naturally checked Sherlock's phone. When John saw the name "Miles" his dominant side must have made him open the message. Sherlock didn't blame him. He'd have done the same. In all fairness John could have bashed his head in with the tyre iron he favoured so much while Sherlock lay sleeping on the couch that day. That he'd restrained himself from homicide was just another of the wonders of Capt. Watson. So, how does one not only make amends to a man for getting his knob polished by another man but also give thanks for not getting one's head crushed while one has slept? He did not know. But he did know just the man to ask!

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock?" Detective Inspector Lestrade sputtered, setting his pint (his 3rd?) down with a look of disgust. "Why would you come to me with this particular quandary? Do you actually think I have experience in these waters?" He was rumpled, as usual, dark circles under his eyes.

"Well," said Sherlock, "I'm sure you disappoint my brother in one way or another on a daily basis. How do you make it up to him?" He gave the DI his most sincere look and stilled himself as not to distract the man from his mental mission.

"Oh, fuck you, Sherlock! Me leaving my dirty socks in the library does not equate to you getting a free hummer behind John's back!" Lestrade exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

"Your actual offense needn't match mine, Lestrade! For Pity's sake, just tell me what was the maddest you've gotten Mycroft and how did you fix it?" he pleaded.

Lestrade noticed how earnest Sherlock looked and softened his tone. "Really, mate, shouldn't you be asking Mycroft this question. He and you are far more alike than you and I". Sherlock huffed and looked away.

"That is beside the point!" he groused. Or WAS it? "Wait, perhaps you are onto something. Ok, what's the worse HE has done to YOU and how did HE fix it?" Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire cat. Greg realized that he'd walked right into a trap he'd made for himself and let out a long sigh.

"Your brother is the most considerate man and a thoughtful and generous lover…" "NO! NO! NO!" Sherlock spat at him. "Do not say _that_! I will lose my lunch, Lestrade! Just tell me, please, without any nauseating details, HOW did he convince you to forgive him for whatever it was he did to offend you?"

Greg thought long and hard and then his cheeks flushed and he looked away. "I should not tell you this. In fact I will _kill_ you if you repeat this, Sherlock". The detective leaned into the DI with wide eyes, restraining himself for inquiring verbally, lest he scare the elder man out of his confession.

"When's the last time you've seen your big brother, up close?" Greg asked, quietly. Sherlock thought and then responded, "I don't know, several weeks at least, maybe more. Why?" "Well, he has a nick-name for me" Lestrade said blushing slightly. "The, uh, The Silver Fox, he calls me". He paused taking a sip out of his beer and checking Sherlock's face for any sign of mockery. Seeing nothing but sincere interest in the other man's expression, he proceeded. "The next time you see Myc just check his tie pin or his cuff links. He did _that_  for me because I felt neglected one night at one of his stuffy government dinners. And that's all I'm going to say about that. But..."

"I get the picture, Lestrade. It's very quaint" Sherlock interrupted.

"BUT!" the D.I. repeated loudly, "He respects me and he has  _never_ let some random sod suck him off in a restaurant loo..."

"As far as you know" Sherlock corrected. Lestrade grabbed the younger man's arm then and squeezed tightly

"Always so clever, yeah?" he snarled mere inches from the detectives face. "Let me just say this to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the Brilliant Bastard of Baker Street: I have seen it all in this job. I have seen men throw away their families for some skirt they run across in the office, on the street, wherever. I've seen guys divorced three times, with kids from each wife, and a new girl in the wings before the inks dry. And I've seen these guys age, and the girls stop looking at them and their kids won't have anything to do with them and their pensions can't pay for 3 ex-wives and so, they end up old, broke and alone and then one night, they drink too much and decide the best course of action is to put their duty weapon in their mouth and kiss it all goodbye."

"Is there a point to this sermon, Father?" Sherlock sneered. "The point?" laughed Lestrade, slamming his hand down on the table. "The _point_ , Mr. Genius, is I care about John Watson. He's my friend. He's a good man. He puts up with a lot of crap from you, yet, for some reason that no one else can fathom, he seems to think you are worth it. Take it from me, mate. You are no prize and you've got someone who loves you and I doubt you'll find another like him. So, the point, Sherlock, my brilliant, stupid, clueless friend is: Keep it in your pants for Christ's Sake!", and he barked this last bit loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. Then he drained the last of his beer, clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and made his way out to the street.

Sherlock sipped his water, replaying Lestrade's words in his mind. Then he frowned, retrieved his phone from his coat and composed and sent a brief text

_Lunch tomorrow? SH_

The response came almost instantly.

_Oh, baby brother, what have you done? MH_

*************

A naked Jim Moriarty lounged in bed, flipping through countless television channels with his right hand and eating seedless green grapes from a crystal bowl with his left. He'd had another late night and his head was pounding.

Why was everything so difficult? Why could people not just follow his instructions? The day to day bullshit of managing his personnel took all the joy out of being a cold blooded killer. What he wouldn't give to find an equal, a true partner. Someone he could play with and not be so certain he would always win.

When he saw the face of Sherlock Holmes appear on the TV screen he gagged. "Not you, you bastard!" he hollered, throwing grapes at the screen. "Goody two shoes pain in the ass!"

"Oi!" yelled the man who had previously had his mouth full of Moriarty's half-limp cock.

"Get off of me!" Moriarty snapped, pushing him away and leaving the bed.

"Well that's nice", the younger man said with a pout. "Hey papi, why don't you take me to breakfast?" he added, hopefully.

"Because, I don't want to." Jim sing-songed back as he gazed at his own body in the full-length mirror. "Now, clean this all up, strip the bed and bring me a HUGE Bloody Mary, with 3 of those big, stuffed olives I like and a hard-boiled egg. I'll be in the bath"

"I'm not a maid, Jim"

"Oh, you are today, Toots, unless you want to be kicking rocks by sun down. Now, be a good boy, do as you're told and quietly FUCK OFF!!" he said closing the bathroom door. He heard the other man complaining for a moment, then all was quiet. He leaned back against the door and sighed.

Jim loved his bathroom. He designed and furnished it himself. From the obscenely large, perilously deep, exquisitely curved, solid granite soaking tub to the custom-made, slate-gray, twenty-jet, four-head aroma and light therapy shower; each faucet, towel, bench, basket and drawer pull had been lovingly selected and meticulously placed.

Why such obsession with a room for ablutions? Because, bathing wasn't just another unavoidable boring necessity to Jim. Heavens No. To his mind, bathing was a cherished escape from the stressors of his life and a pleasure not to be experienced in a half-assed manner.

He brushed the previous night's disappointments from his teeth as the hot water filled the cavernous tub. He'd had to put in an on-demand water heater to fill the big bitch that he lovingly called Bertha. With a few strokes of his fingers on the opposing wall, the room was filled with a relaxing pale green light and the sounds of a frog pond at dusk.

He threw in some lavender bath salts, along with a healthy squirt of Mr. Bubble, then lowered himself into Bertha's womb, closing his eyes. A small smile graced his lips as the bubbles reached his neck. He reached for his rubber shark and gave it a playful squeeze. It squeaked and he giggled. "Take me to breakfast" he said in a cartoon voice, using the shark as a stand-in puppet. Jim giggled again and sank slowly beneath the water.

Jim liked to see how long he could stay under water without needing air. He'd become quite good at it. He enjoyed the self-imposed challenge and the pound of his heartbeat blasting through his head. In his watery bliss he didn't hear the quiet knock that preceded the presentation of his cocktail, moments later. He didn't hear the sigh of disappointment coming from its bearer. He did, however, feel the hand that slipped beneath the water, stroking his knee. He smiled and emerged from his watery cocoon.

Spying his beverage, he took a large pull from it and closed his eyes in pleasure, "Perfect, Love. Thank you." he purred and winked returning his lips to the glass "Anything else I can get for you, Daddy?" "Yes, my little pork chop. You can get your ass in this tub and make me feel better" .Today might be a good day after all.

Jim loved to bathe and Jim loved to fuck, but fucking while bathing made him giddy as a drunken man. Especially, when the ass swallowing his cock was as delicious as this one. He'd met him at Carnivale, dressed like Scheherazade, almond eyes dark with liner, skin as bronze and sweet as perfectly baked Crème Brule. In spite of himself, Jim had opened his heart a bit and brought the boy home with him. He knew what it meant to be abandoned, alone and confused. And he knew a great piece of ass when it was presented to him like a holiday ham!

He put the £50 per bottle body wash to good use and stroked the lad in time with his deep thrusts. "Come for me, Love. Do it right _now_!" and he could feel that his command had been obeyed by the clenching around his own aching cock. With three more pumps, he released as well then pulled the boy down onto his chest, kissing his forehead lightly.

"Now, wasn't that better than some silly old breakfast?" "Mmm" was the only response. After a few minutes of peace, his pet looked up into Jim's eyes.

"Papi?" He asked, meekly.

"Hmm?"

Why did you throw your grapes at the TV?"

"I threw my grapes at Sherlock Holmes, baby."

The boy sat up smiling, "Sherly was on TV?"

Jim's hand shot out and latched onto his lover's throat, squeezing until no more sound came out. He snarled inches from his face,

"How the  _fuck_ do  _you_ know Sherlock, Miles?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not realize that this chapter was originally posted in it's very roughest form. Here then is the corrected draft. Lesson learned.

Miles has always believed that someday he would drown. In fact, he'd come close to drowning several times. In a swimming pool, in the ocean, even in a river once. But he did not believe he was meant to die in a fucking one-ton, granite bathtub full of Mr. Bubble. So, even while Jim Moriarty held his head underwater, gripping his throat like a vice, Miles believed this was not how he was going to meet his demise.

In fact, after the initial shock and awe of being simultaneously strangled and forced under water, he didn't even struggle. Instead, he forced himself to relax his neck muscles and just concentrate on his own heartbeat. He told himself _"All will be well"_ and, sure as shit, it was.

He felt Jim release his throat and slowly move his hand to the back of his neck, instead. As his face was gently lifted from the water, Miles opened his eyes, took a deep breath and felt reborn. He looked up and smiled at Jim as if the maniac had just _saved_ his life rather than almost ending it. To Miles, attitude was everything; this was especially true with a crazy fuck like Jim Moriarty.

"Miles, I am not fucking around" Jim said quietly while frowning at his perfectly manicured nails. Then he turned those cold dead eyes onto Miles and asked, "How do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"We were... kinda...sorta...very... close... at one time" Miles said softly.

"You were 'close'?" Jim asked, tilting his head to the side like a curious retriever. "Miles, are you trying to tell me in your own cute, _stupid_ , little way that you and Sherlock used to _fuck_?"

"Yes, Jim. We fucked, we danced, and we did a _lot_ of drugs, but that was eons ago." Jim let out a loud, "HA!" which startled Miles.

"Well, colour me surprised, sugar" he said. "I didn't think Sherlock would lower himself to participate in anything as banal and pedestrian and... _sticky_ as sex. How was he?"

"Well, he didn't know much. I had to teach him practically everything and he was usually so high that he was kind of a sloppy lay" Miles smiled at the memory of Sherlock's clumsiness until he saw the return of Jim's frown. "But he means nothing to me now, Jim. I swear." He quickly lied and leaned in to lick Jim's right nipple.

"Well, Sherlock means a great deal to me, Miles and I don't want you fucking that up. So, I'll tell you this one time. Do not go near him again." He purred while stroking a hand down Miles' back to his ass. Then that hand pinched his ass,  _hard._ Miles winced and pulled back.

"Do you understand me, Miles?" Jim smiled creepily.

"Of course, Jim. Whatever you say." Miles was genuinely scared now and tried to stand up and leave. Jim grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back down, violently. Water splashed over the side of the tub, drenching the floor. 

"Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, Miles" Jim sighed as he stroked Miles' cheek with his other hand, still grasping his wrist firmly. "I like you. I don't want anything... unfortunate...to happen to you."

"Ok. Ok." Miles took a deep breath and willed his heart to quit tap dancing.

"Do as you're told, Miles, or I'll throw you back in the street where I found you. Am I clear?" Miles took another deep breath, closed his eyes again and nodded.

"No! Look at me, Miles" Jim commanded. When Miles opened his eyes, Jim stared into him with his own. Miles tried not to look afraid, or guilty, but wasn't sure he was really pulling that off. He thought Jim had eyes like a demon, or a Day of the Dead candy skull. When he smiled they were beautiful, but when he was angry they lost all their light and gave Miles a serious case of the heebie jeebies. After a long moment, apparently satisfied, Jim kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I would hate to lose you, Miles, so be good".

With that, Jim got out of the bathtub and left the room, still dripping wet. Miles turned the hot water on and rubbed his neck. The bastard had probably left bruises on him... again. Why the hell would Jim care about a skinny nerd like Sherlock? The boy could not dance, could not sing and had no means of income as far as Miles knew. Of course, he did have other assets. With that alabaster body, those lips, that voice and those eyes, he'd turned a lot of heads, from both genders.

This made him wonder if Sherlock and Jim had been lovers at one time. That thought made Miles giggle, in spite of himself. He just couldn't picture it. No two men were less alike that Sherlock and Jim. Their relationship was more than likely about drugs. Oh, was Sherlock working for Jim too? No way. Jim could not trust a coke freak like Sherlock with his drugs. Maybe he was just a customer, but Jim didn't work at that level. Miles could not figure it out, but he knew one thing for sure. He had just lied to Jim Moriarty and that was an incredibly stupid and dangerous thing to do. He had seen what happens to people who lie to Jim and he did not want to end up in a landfill somewhere.

"Fuck me" he groused and sank back underneath the water. He had wanted excitement in his life. Well he certainly had it now. Dancing the Psycho-Salsa with Jim was definitely exciting, but also about as much fun as tip-toeing through a nest of scorpions. He thought he might just text Sherlock and ask for a history lesson and perhaps assistance with an exit strategy. Didn't his brother have some kind of important connections? Even if he didn't, he was loaded with old money. Damn it, he was really going to miss this awesome fucking bath tub.

*******************

John Watson wanted nothing more than to walk to the clinic unmolested. He'd already managed to over-sleep, burn his toast, and spill tea on his shirt this morning and was in no mood for any more surprises. He blamed the younger Holmes brother for all of it and the last thing he needed to see was that ridiculously long, black, shiny fucking car idling at the curb one block up from 221B. When he went to cross the street, the text came in:

_Get in the car, John - MH_

He was half tempted to throw the man the one-finger salute and skip down the street like a school girl, but he knew it would just make for a scene at the office. He let out a stream of expletives under his breath, and then opened the rear-passenger side door.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson" Mycroft Holmes said with a wicked grin.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Everything is alright at the Holmes-Watson home these days?"

"As if that is any of your business. What? Is there no world crisis screaming for your attention so you've come to throw rocks at the peasants?"

"Well, actually, John I'm here to help you. If I can. You see, quite out of character, my brother texted me and asked me to lunch. So, either he's finally going to propose to his beloved or he's done something irretrievably stupid. Frankly, I don't know which prospect excites me more", Mycroft quipped. John slumped into the seat next to him and shut the door.

"Well, now that you mention it, Mycroft. Did you know that Miles is back in town?" John asked, keeping his eyes locked on those of the government official.

"Really? That is interesting. How do you know this, John?" Mycroft suddenly looked very serious.

"Because Sherlock 'had lunch' with him the other day", Watson answered with the appropriate air quotes.

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, that is the question of the century, there Myc! Who knows why your little brother does any of the insane things he does? And, frankly, who cares? Can you just make Miles disappear again?"

"Again? I never made him disappear the first time."

"What? Really? Well then, can you have a go at it this time... please?"

"Is this jealousy I'm hearing, John? or a real concern for Sherlock's well-being?"

"Fuck. You. Ok? You know that guy is bad news, Mycroft. Sherlock is an addict. And, for whatever reason, Sherlock loses his mind when Miles is around. Neither of us need him going down that rabbit hole again, do we? So, please... please" John swallowed, hard and looked away. "Please make him go away, Mycroft... for me" he pleaded.

"It shouldn't be a problem", Mycroft assured him. "Did he actually give Sherlock drugs, John?"

"No. I don't think so. No. Not unless you consider a quick blow job in the loo a drug."

Mycroft's mouth twitched. He then straightened his tie, pulled at his cuffs and stroked his hair back with one hand. "Oh, Dear" he started. "Well, then. I am most saddened to hear that, John".

"Yeah. Whatever". John had the strangest feeling that he was back in confession. It pissed him off.

"Do you have any idea where he's staying now?"

"Besides the men's room at any sleazy club you can name? Not really, no. Listen, Mycroft, just... do whatever it is you do... ok? Before I go on and kill him myself."

"Which one do you mean, Doctor?" Mycroft asked, not believing for a moment that John would hurt Sherlock, but wanting him to really hear what he had just said, so casually.

"Ha. Yeah, well, um… either? Both? I haven't decided quite yet" John laughed and Mycroft sensed that the immediate storm had passed.

"I shall give it my full attention this afternoon, John. Please don't do anything rash until you hear back from me."

"I make no promises, Mycroft." said John, exiting the car. "So, don't dawdle, yeah?"

After the slam of the car door, Mycroft Holmes watched the Captain Watson proceed down the street. His stride appeared normal. He seemed to have collected himself and did not look like a man on the verge of homicide. But, Mycroft knew that ordinary, respectable people were capable of manner of violence under the right circumstances. He also knew that John Watson was quite proficient with a firearm and still suffered from PTSD.

*******************

Sherlock Holmes fidgeted in his chair like a school boy in church. He hated this stuffy restaurant and hated asking Mycroft for help. In fact, he was just about to change his mind about the whole thing when he saw the familiar silhouette of his brother enter the door. He took a drink of water and tried to get control of his heartbeat. He put his hands in his lap so Mycroft wouldn't see them shaking. As his brother sat across from him, Sherlock noticed the small silver fox head tie sitting proudly against the royal blue tie. It was just as Lestrade had described it. Sentiment!

"Brother, mine. So nice to see you" Mycroft smiled as he sat, resting his umbrella on the spare chair.

"It's not nice at all, Mycroft, but thank you for coming."

"How may I be of assistance?"

"I've done something stupid. I've hurt John and I need to do something grand to make it up to him."

"Well, for starters you could quit meeting old boyfriends for quickies in the loo, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt like he'd been slapped. He felt his face burning. His throat wasn't functioning properly. His eyes felt wrong so he blinked them, rapidly. He couldn't speak.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock! It's not the end of the world. No need for all this drama over a little fellatio"

"He _told_ you?" Sherlock had never felt more embarrassed or betrayed.

"Well, to be fair to John, I surprised him. I don't think he meant to tell me, but you know how he gets when he's angry... or concerned about you."

"Yes. I do". Sherlock also knew that the present situation was infinitely worse than he'd originally thought. John detested Mycroft. He would never confide in him unless he was beyond livid or really needed help.

"So, when did Miles return to London?" Mycroft asked while scanning the menu.

"I have no idea. I got a couple of texts from him last week. Which I ignored" Sherlock sniffed.

"And at least one that you didn't, hmm?" his brother said, with a raised eyebrow

"It wasn't like that Mycroft. He ambushed me!" Sherlock protested, with a glare.

"Oh, I see. Well, did you tell Lestrade? I'm sure he'll assign a well-armed strike force. After all, a dangerous sexual predator like that should be hunted down immediately" Mycroft smirked. Sherlock threw his napkin down in disgust and stood up.

"Oh, sit down, Sherlock" Mycroft sneered. "There's no use crying over spilled… milk, is there? Let's have a nice lunch and figure out how to make it right by John. Lestrade's task force can wait."

"Speaking of Lestrade", Sherlock parried, "Nice tie pin".

"Touché, brother. Now look at your menu and take a few deep breaths. It's not like you shot the pope."

"I knew texting you was a bad idea". Sherlock groused

"No. Texting me was the smartest thing you've done all week. Pity you didn't think to do that _before_ agreeing to meet your former paramour for _lunch_." 

"I know. I'm an idiot. You don't need to remind me. Just tell me how to fix it" Sherlock snapped.

"Fix what Sherlock? The sudden reappearance of your ex-lover or the infidelity you've committed against the current one?"

"Both! Can you make Miles go away, again?"

"Speaking of that, why did you tell John that I made Miles vanish the first time?"

"Because you did, didn't you?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I have more important worries than who is in your bed, Sherlock."

"What did John want from you, anyway?"

"He asked me to _take care_ of Miles?" 

"He wants you to _kill_ him?" 

"No. Well, not exactly. I'm not sure what he wants, Sherlock. But he's definitely not happy right now. I'd tread lightly if I were you. John Watson has had enough pain in his life, don't you think?"

"Then help me fix it, damn you!" Sherlock snapped. "Quit relishing in my anguish and help me think."

"You could make him a cake, I suppose" Mycroft offered, lamely. This conversation was losing its appeal.

"Not everyone is as fond of cake as you, Mycroft!"

"Pity," he said, now looking at the dessert section of the menu. "Sherlock, how can you not know what to do? You _always_ know what to do. No one knows John better than you do and no one, but me, is as clever as you. Think about it. What does John like? What makes him feel safe and loved? Whatever that is, do _that_ , repeatedly while begging his forgiveness for your stupidity and weakness." Mycroft rose and grabbed his umbrella.

"You're leaving? I thought you wanted lunch?"

"No. I came to give you advice. I've done that. Now I'm going to go to my favourite bakery, buy a ridiculously extravagant cake, take it home to Gregory and thank him for putting up with _both_ of us!" 


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson hesitated at the door of 221B. He never knew what to expect on the other side of that threshold, even in the best of times. He'd found severed heads, floating eye balls, all manner of strange experiments and even stranger clients.

Still, all that sort of strangeness had become an oddly routine over the years. But this, this was different. None of the ordinary rules of their life or even logic seemed to apply. Not that  _pure_  logic ever applied where Sherlock was concerned, but a sort of twisted  _Sherlockian Logic_  did and even that was now missing.

The chess pieces seemed to be moving themselves these days with no rhyme or reason. So, John suspected that things could get completely dreadful very quickly once he opened that door or at the very least they'd be painfully awkward for a horribly long time. He promised himself he would bite his tongue and be civil, if only for Mrs. Hudson's sake.

He trusted Mycroft to take care of Miles, so he just needed to take care of his own feelings and make sure Sherlock understood that this was more than a bit not good. He would not shout. He would not allow that. He'd made a mess of things the other night by allowing himself to get angry. He could've really hurt Sherlock and that was unacceptable. He would apologize for that. That was only right. He grabbed the door knob.

The smell of something amazing hit him when he finally opened the door. Mrs. Hudson must be experimenting with a new recipe. He knocked on her door to say 'hello' but she didn't answer and the smell did not seem to be coming from her flat after all. He noticed a small smile forming on his lips.

Sherlock was up to something. Maybe he'd decided to order in from Angelo's, a peace offering, perhaps? He walked slowly up the stairs, trying to be quiet, and wondered if he could actually surprise Sherlock for once. He'd never been successful before.

"John! I'm in the kitchen" came a shout from that beautiful baritone. Blast it. He hadn't been quiet enough. He ditched his coat and kicked off his shoes then wandered toward the kitchen. There he found Sherlock or, rather, a strange version of someone who  _looked_  like Sherlock.

Only  _this_ Sherlock was wearing nothing but very skimpy camo pants, one of John's old army t-shirts and his dog tags. And  _this_  Sherlock was  _cooking?_ It would have been hilarious if not for the raw sentiment behind it. Instead of making John laugh, it crushed him.

Here was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective; stripped of all his defences. No coat, no scarf. No air of supremacy. No crime scene (or violin) with which he could demonstrate his brilliance. No audience to render awestruck. Instead, his Sherlock, the one full of insecurities and doubts. The Sherlock, that no one else got to see, engaged in the most mundane of domestic activities. Cooking in camo pants and dog tags! 

John felt an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat and, just for a moment, forgot what he had been so bloody upset about in the first place. But then he saw that Sherlock was avoiding eye contact with him and it all came flooding back. Oh, yes, Miles and Sherlock's inability to keep his trousers zipped. John bit the inside of his cheek. As charmed as he was, he couldn't make this too easy. He was still bloody well furious about that whole thing, deep down.

"What's all this then?" he asked, looking Sherlock up and down thoroughly and trying not to smile or grimace. He knew that Sherlock knew what the camos and dog tags would do to him, at least physically. And yes, part of him really wanted to ravish him right now on the kitchen table, but  _that_  would send the wrong message, yeah?

"My clumsy attempt at romance, I suppose. Or, maybe not romance. Maybe reparation is actually a better word" Sherlock said, handing John a glass of wine and sneaking a quick peak at his face to check the mood.

"Ah. Well, then. What exactly do I smell?" John asked, forcing his gaze away from the curve of Sherlock's bum and over to the oven.

"It's nothing fancy. Just a roast chicken, some potatoes, some beans, and... a cherry pie" the detective said bashfully, fiddling with the oven knobs rather than making eye contact.

"So, comfort food" John said, letting the weight of that sink in, for them both.

"If all goes as planned… yes, that was the general idea" Sherlock said cautiously and, to John he looked very much like a lost school boy.

"Was this Mycroft's idea?" John asked sceptically. Because, in fact, it sounded an awful lot like something Mycroft might suggest, especially the pie. If genuine, this was the most selfless thing he'd ever seen Sherlock do. It  _appeared_  to be an act of pure love on the part of a man who  _always_  had an ulterior motive. Very suspicious indeed.

"No... I... just..." Sherlock stammered. Then, his face fell and his shoulders slumped in what looked like defeat. He turned to check something on the stove again, but John grabbed his arm.  _That_  was what he'd needed to see. That proved to John that Sherlock was unsure of himself. He did not  _know_  this would work. He hoped it would, but he was not sure! He'd put himself out there without absolute certainty of the outcome. This was... remarkable.

"Come here." John said, not an order from Captain Watson; just a request. Sherlock froze, then turned slowly and looked up at John, who was standing with open arms. Sherlock searched John's eyes, clearly rattled.

"This is lovely, Sherlock. Truly." he said warmly, hoping that Sherlock would come to him now. When he finally did, John engulfed his thin frame in a bear hug. "I think I know what you are trying to say and I  _do_  appreciate it. Very much."

Sherlock did not speak. He also did not hug John back. Instead he was just still. Very still. Almost, eerily still. Until he suddenly erupted.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't leave me. Please!" he blurted out, then buried his face in John's neck and wrapped his arms around John's waist. Sherlock was trembling. His hands now clinging to the back of John's belt. He felt very strange inside, as if his heart was trying to break out of his chest. He'd had adrenaline rushes before, but this was different. He took two shallow, shuddering breaths and continued.

"I will do anything you want, John. I swear. I will eat... and I will sleep..."

"Hey..." John tried to interject, sensing the rising panic in the detective.

"...and I will get the milk. I will clean up after myself. I will stop calling Anderson an idiot. I won't make fun of Donovan and I won't be rude to Mycroft anymore", Sherlock continued rapidly, not even attempting to disguise his distress. "Just, please, please, _please_  forgive me, John. And if you can't forgive me, at least please stay here. Don't leave... don't hate me, please! I won't... I can't... John... I simply cannot... _be_... without you."

"HEY!" John said louder, pulling back so he could re-establish eye contact. "I'm here, Sherlock. Come on. I'm here" he stroked the detective's cheek, gently and then went back to hugging him tightly. "You're ok, Sherlock. Stop this now. I am here. We will work this out. I'm angry at you but I don't hate you and I'm not going anywhere, alright?"

When Sherlock did not respond, John pulled away again and grabbed his chin, tipping his head to make him look John in the eyes. "Alright?" he repeated. He got a small nod and a rapid blinking of those wild eyes he knew so well. A single tear escaped the corner of Sherlock's right eye and it rolled all the way down to his chin. He took in a few cleansing breaths and tried to compose himself a bit.

John held both of Sherlock's hands in his own and they just stood there like that, for several minutes. Sherlock looking down at his feet as if they were suddenly fascinating and John just rubbing his thumbs back and form across the back of Sherlock's hands, hoping to calm him a bit. Finally, the moment passed and Sherlock sighed, loudly.

"I should get that chicken out of the oven, John. I don't want it to dry out. The book said...." but Sherlock couldn't finish because John was suddenly kissing him, very gently and, Sherlock hoped, forgiving him his stupid bloody trespasses. How in the world could it be so? This was a miracle! As far as Sherlock was concerned that bloody chicken could get stuffed. He tried to deepen the kiss but John broke away and pushed him back, gently. Ah, so not  _completely_  forgiven. He looked down, again and John cleared his throat.

"Well, get the poor thing out of there, then", John chuckled, focusing back on the oven. "I'm starving and just dying to see how you did. Oh, and use these bloody things", he added, tossing the oven mitts to Sherlock who smiled a very small smile, his cheeks turning pink. John was not sure where that kiss had come from, but he did not regret it one bit. Sherlock had needed that kiss and John, as was his nature, took care of Sherlock's emotional needs, even if he was a git.

Sherlock felt a surge of hope race through him as he brought the bird out and set it before his army captain. This must be how it felt to get a reprieve on death row, he thought. Somehow he'd dodged the firing squad. Somehow he'd evaded the hangman's noose. Somehow the most amazing man on earth still loved him, even if only just a little bit.

He poured John a little more wine and then served him a large plate full of comfort food. John ate it all and asked for seconds, insisting that Sherlock eat a little of each dish too. They had their pie in front of the fire and then Sherlock did the dishes and cleaned the entire kitchen while John watched crap telly.

*********************

"Are you done?" asked the doctor after what seemed like an eternity. Sherlock turned to look at him before answering a simple 'yes'. Something about the army doctor's posture made him change his mind. "Yes, Sir" he said instead. John seemed pleased with that answer.

"You've been good tonight, Sherlock. Almost perfect. Hoping to be forgiven, yeah?" said John, still in his chair. Then he stood up and looked at the sleuth.  "Now, see? This is how you should behave. Always. Not only when you've fucked up." Sherlock remained still, waiting, not daring, not at all cocky. "You can't be rewarded for tonight, do you understand?" John asked with just a hint of bitterness in his voice.

The tall man had played this game before; he knew if you were asked a question you must answer it. But, this time, he didn't know the answer. He hated what he had done with Miles, not because it was wrong, but because everything that came afterwards, all the mess, the pain, the confusion, it occupied a big portion of his brain, so big he couldn't function properly. He couldn't think through simple things. He couldn't project thoughts nor rehearse possible outcomes for different situations. He was powerless; he hated Miles for it, and then himself.

"I asked you a question" John said, a little bit tired of the disobedience. They were passed that, weren't they? These little things had been learned long ago, right? "Are we going back to basics?" he asked, feeling angry and disappointed.

"No, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir" Sherlock blurted. He was standing between the kitchen and John's chair, looking very much like a child to John's eyes. Small and innocent. But he was neither of those things, and John needed to fix that.

"Kneel" he ordered. Sherlock kneeled.

"Crawl towards me." Sherlock crawled.

"Stop." Sherlock stopped.

"Good, you work like a brand new toy. I wonder what will it take to break you." John grabbed his tags in a strong fist, forcing Sherlock to look at him. "You took these without my permission."

"You're a handful, aren't you? There's always something else to rectify. And no matter what, you will always fail again. You will always disappoint me. Won't you?"

Oh, shit. This is a tricky one, Sherlock knew that much. There's no right answer to this one. Well, there is, actually, one good answer, but that would mean to disagree with the master.

"Won't you?" he repeated, knowing that repetition meant punishment for later.

"No, Sir. I will be better for you, Sir. I promise."

"We'll see about that." John opened his trousers and then slightly lowered his pants. He pulled out his half-hard cock, and started touching himself in front of Sherlock's face.

"Do you like what you see?"

"Yes, Sir. Very much, Sir."

"That's the problem, right there. You love cock, don't you?" Sherlock knew John wasn't being fair with the rhetorical questions, but he hadn't been fair either, so complaining wasn't an option.

"Only yours, Sir."

"You lying bitch. You promised to be better not a few minutes ago. See how you always fail?" John asked. Sherlock was about to answer when John beat him to it.

"Let's see how much you love it." He sat on his chair and resumed the massaging of his cock.

"Undress" he commanded.

Sherlock removed the old army shirt and the camo pants.

"Leave only my dog tags on" added John. Soon enough Sherlock was completely naked except for the dog tags. "Good boy. Now turn around and sit on my cock. You will eat every inch of it. Do it now!"

Sherlock hadn't looked at John's eyes for most of the evening, but at that command, he did. He wondered if he had heard correctly. John was asking for Sherlock to fuck himself on John's cock without _preparation_ , without lube, without anything to ease the way. Raw. Just John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.

John looked at him completely at ease like nothing out the ordinary was going on. Sherlock gave a tiny, almost invisible nod, more to reassure himself than anyone else and then he turned around.  John took in the lovely sight of Sherlock's buttocks; burnt, marked with his name and number. Possession. Ownership.  Betrayal.  Jealousy. Blind love. Devotion. Almost every aspect of what it means to be human was burnt into that fine ass. Their whole sordid story etched into that alabaster skin by his own hand.

John caressed the marks, softer now that they had healed properly and Sherlock released the breath he had been holding for a while.

"Bend forward" John commanded and Sherlock did as was told.

Sherlock's asshole was now on display, clenching and unclenching, clearly waiting for some attention. But at that last moment John changed his mind, he was about to make things easier for both of them, but the world's only consulting detective didn't deserve "easy".  Not tonight.  Instead, John slapped Sherlock's ass a few times till the skin reddened a bit.

"I said before, you wouldn't be rewarded tonight, and you didn't seem to understand. Once you sink all the way to the hilt, I'll explain that to you."

Sherlock made a step backwards towards John's cock and lowered his body until the head lined up with his ass. He grabbed the cock to keep it still and was about to go lower when John barked "No hands, soldier". Sherlock quickly removed his hand.

The doctor grabbed his cock so it didn't fall and wait for Sherlock to find it with his ass. It was so much harder this way, and the anticipation made John release some precum. Once again lined up, Sherlock pushed harder on it, achieving nothing. He snarled and felt frustrated all over. He couldn't do it. He couldn't please his master.

"Shh. Breathe, relax and sink, breathe, relax and sink…" John instructed. Sherlock tried one more time, he took a deep breathe, he relaxed his ass and sank on John's cock. Inch by inch he lowered himself to the hilt.

His body screamed as a stinging pain overtook him in every direction, burning him from the inside out. He had never felt anything like it. So raw and real. It hurt so much, that tears started falling from his eyes.  Suddenly his mind was at a loss, he couldn't recall how they had reached this abyss or how were they going to crawl out of it. There was no past or future, just this moment and all this  _pain_.

"I knew you could do it" said John, covering Sherlock's back with light kisses.  "Breathe love, open for me." Sherlock began to relax, focusing on John's voice and soon pleasure started to spark in him. He leaned back on John's chest, suddenly tired of the whole ordeal. "That's it", John murmured and they both started moaning at the gentle rhythm they were building between them.

"Now that I've got you where I wanted you, I trust you'll listen to what I have to say. I appreciate your effort tonight, but it doesn't change what happened, does it? You can make a thousand meals with cherry pies, and still they wouldn't change it. You are a logical man, you know this."

John lifted Sherlock's hip a little so he could pound him harder. Sherlock gasped at that. "Same goes for what I did to you. You hurt me. I hurt you back. See why none of our behaviour can be rewarded?  We can't fix it with pies…" Sherlock was bouncing furiously on his lover's cock now, making it really difficult for John to keep talking. Every time Sherlock went down, John went up in sweet synchronicity. It was raw, hard and delicious.

"Please" begged Sherlock. John thought he was referring to be touched, so he grabbed his cock and started milking it to the rhythm, but then Sherlock begged again. "Please, John" he said and then the doctor finally understood and between moans and hard breathing he managed to to answer his plea.

"I forgive you, Sherlock. Of course I forgive you." Sherlock impaled himself with all his strength and came between sobs. John hugged him and held him in place while he continued thrusting into him. "Now it's my turn." The doctor said and waited.

"Yes, John. I forgive you" Sherlock said softly and John came harder than he ever had in his life, filling his lover and releasing the last of his anger.  

***********************

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was lounging on a very expensive sofa, watching football on a very expensive television set. He was drinking a premium beer in a stupidly well-decorated room and all of this because, for some reason, Mycroft Holmes found Greg's company delightful. Mycroft had called the office asked him to leave work early and since Greg found Mycroft to be equally delightful, he wrapped up things at the office without a moment's hesitation.

He suspected he'd be called upon to dress up like a prat and attend another boring function later, but for now, he was enjoying two of life's very ordinary pleasures in a very extraordinary house. He was also waiting for the most remarkable man he'd ever met to come home and tell him what to do next. He did not mind having Mycroft tell him what to do. He actually took comfort in it.

Mycroft was one of those people who always seemed to know what to say and what to do and when to say and do it. That kind of confidence and authority gave Greg permission to not be the one in charge, to not be D.I. Lestrade. Instead, he could just be Greg, the simple man with simple tastes who Mycroft dragged around London for various extravagant events. So, he'd wait for Mycroft (and his plans) to arrive and concern himself with nothing but his beer and football game until then.

He did not have to wait long. He heard the familiar commotion that signalled the master of the house had returned. Then, after speaking briefly to the butler in the foyer, Mycroft Holmes swept into the library with his usual grace and flair. He was smiling the genuine smile of someone who'd just won a prize (or an important argument) and he was holding a square, pink box in one hand. He tousled Lestrade's hair a bit with the other hand and then bent over and kissed the top of his head.

"Well,  _you're_  in a good mood", Greg teased. "Did you solve another problem of world-wide importance today?"

"Even better my dear Gregory. I saw my brother today."

"And?"

"And, I have never seen Sherlock in such a state. On this day, he is a very humble Holmes, indeed" said Mycroft, plopping the pink box in Greg's lap.

"You really should not take satisfaction in his misery, Myc. It's beneath a man of your breeding and position." Greg scolded. Only half joking. He did not like the way the Holmes brothers delighted in taking cheap shots at each other. He wished that Mycroft and himself could enjoy time with Sherlock and John without the knives coming out each time.

"I am not taking pleasure in his  _misery_ , Greg. I'm taking pleasure in his humility. It's much like Hailey's comet, a rare and spectacular wonder, not to be missed." Mycroft removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He stretched his arms up over his head then performed a perfect sun salutation. Greg chuckled, again, at the many wonders of Mycroft. Then he flipped the top of the prissy pink box back.

"This is a very silly looking cake, Mycroft and it is not even my birthday. Why do we have a cake? Did you win the office football pool or something?"

"It is not your birthday, and you know I care nothing about football." Mycroft purred and nibbled Greg's ear lobe. "But it is indeed a day to celebrate and I will not be denied my celebration"

"So, we're going to gorge on this cake to celebrate your brother's humility? That seems a bit cruel, don't you think?" Greg said before draining the remains of his beer.

"Well, I was going to  _nibble_  on the cake later tonight. First, I was going to take you  _both_  upstairs, nibble on  _you_  for a bit and then show you how very much it means to me that you are a grown up, sensible person who never gives me headaches. But, if you find that to be too cruel, I suppose I can leave you to your football game and just go back to work... with my cake", Mycroft said, leaving the library and heading for the stairs.

Greg caught up to him before he'd reached the 3rd step. "You forgot your silly cake", he said, pinching Mycroft's bum with his free hand.

"Somehow I knew you'd be bringing it to me, Detective Inspector."

"Do we need plates?"

"Oh, I don't think so, do you?" 

There was no more discussion between them that night about Sherlock Holmes and whether or not Mycroft was cruel. In fact, here was not much discussion about anything at all.

***********************

  
 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Couples counseling? Are you completely mental?" Sherlock fumed from his chair by the fireplace, his gray eyes glaring in disgust.

"I think it would be good for us", John said calmly before sipping his tea. He'd given the topic a lot of thought after the Miles/Branding incident. He'd done some rotations in the psych units. He had a general understanding of the process. He and Sherlock weren't a traditional couple, by any means, but they had issues to work on, just like 99% of couples do.

Professional help might be the way to go. He hadn't expected Sherlock to agree to it, willingly, so he was prepared for a debate

"Good for us?" the detective snorted, "How? You want me to bare my soul to some idiot with a few certificates on the wall? In hopes of what, John? _Changing_ me?"

"Changing US, Sherlock. The way we communicate, the way we function."

"I happen to like the way we function, John."

"Really?", John raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Yes. Really" Sherlock mocked. "You know what I like, I know what you like. We work well together, the sex is good. We function just fine." Sherlock looked at him with that annoying 'you know I'm right' look and waited for John to simply give up and agree with him, as usual. Not this time, by God. He had things he had to say.

"You have scars on your ass that might disprove that, Sherlock. In case you've forgotten, I lost my temper and I hurt you."

"That was weeks ago, John and, besides, you have scars all over your body! Scars hard-won in battle. Earned. I'd like to think I earned mine, though apparently you don't share that opinion."

"Earned yours?" John felt sick. "Sherlock, my scars came from people who wanted to kill me or kill you. Yours came from the one person who is supposed to love and protect you above all others." John pinched the top of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. This was not going as planned. He felt a headache coming on and wished he'd never brought this subject up.

"I think your scars are incredibly sexy, John. And I happen to like the fact that you branded me." Sherlock's voice was much deeper than normal. John just stared at him in disbelief and recoiled at the arousal he felt in his groin. What the Hell? How did he do that?

"No. stop. You are just trying to change the subject or distract me." He said, once he'd regained his equilibrium. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You know how I feel about shrinks, John. My parents had me tested, remember?"

"This isn't going to be like that, Sherlock."

"How do you know?"

"Because, you git, I won't allow it to be like that. We will search until we find someone we both feel comfortable with." John could feel himself getting frustrated. Why did every bloody thing have to end up in an argument? Oh, right, because Sherlock was Sherlock.

"I feel comfortable with you, John. Only you. I hate everyone else. And they hate me!" Sherlock said this in genuine sincerity, John realized. He really thought this was true.

"Not everybody hates you, Sherlock. I can name several people who are quite fond of you. And, besides, a professional knows how to deal with all types."

"A _Professional_? Do you honestly see this working? Me, having my darkest places poked and prodded by someone with the brain of a goldfish?"

"Well, not when you are so determined to make it fail, I guess not! I was hoping this might be useful, to us both, but I forgot you are already perfect!" with that John stomped into the bedroom and threw himself down on the bed in frustration.

Why did he even bother? What had he possibly expected? It was like arguing with a robot. He might as well go stick his dick in Mrs. Hudson's meat grinder. It would probably be less painful. He hoped Sherlock would recognize his need for space and let him calm down, but of course, that was just too bloody much to expect from a man with no fucking boundaries.

Sherlock followed his Captain, determined to be heard and to make John see that they didn't need outside help with their relationship. The fact that he even could think the word "relationship" without gagging was testament to how far he'd come. Under John's loving eyes, he was a changed man. Why could John not see how well they were doing?

"You are angry with me" he said softly, from the doorway. John wanted better communication, right? He'd practice stating the obvious even if it make him feel like someone with a serious head injury.

"No shit, Sherlock!" John snarled from beneath the pillow he'd grabbed to bury his face. "Did you work out that mystery all by yourself, or is Anderson out there helping you?" Sherlock paused and reconsidered. Perhaps brain damaged communication was not the stuff. Perhaps, something else was called for. It was worth a try anyway.

"Shall we start with the riding crop?" Sherlock asked, retrieving the tool from the closet and throwing it on the bed.

"What?" John looked up from under the pillow, confused. Had he heard, correctly? Sherlock was standing very still and very close to the bed now.

"Come on, John. I think we both need this. I'll feel better and you'll feel better. You'll have my undivided attention. You can whip some sense into me and then we can shag."

"But you aren't misbehaving, Sherlock. We're just disagreeing. There is no need for punishment in this situation."

"Would it be easier if I did something that warranted a punishment?" The detective asked with the trace of a smirk.

"Are you going to do something deliberately?" Was there anything this mad bastard wouldn't do to get what he wanted?

"If I must. I'm asking you for discipline. If you won't give it to me when I ask, then I'll do something to get it. You said I'm a git who thinks I'm perfect. Surely that is an offense in it's own right."

"No. That is just you, Sherlock. And you don't want discipline you want a little spanking and a shag."

"I do want and need it, and you want to put me through the agony of going to see a counselor, but you won't take matters into your own hands!"

"I don't understand" John said blankly.

"You should put that on a T-shirt, John" the genius sighed in frustration. "For fuck's sake!" he continued. "You went to medical school. You've saved people's lives and fought in battle! What can a counselor do that you cannot accomplish on your own with this riding crop, your strong will and my undivided attention?" Sherlock asked while running the crop up John's thigh.

"Watch it, you!" John barked, he did not like Sherlock's snarky tone one bit.

"Or what, Captain?" Sherlock said with a wink. "Or... what?" and he snapped the riding crop down on John's chest, then turned on his heels and left the room.

John flinched at the strike, then laid on the bed, stunned. That little fuck had not just hit him with his own riding crop. Had he? By God, this was mutiny! John leapt to his feet, grabbed the crop and headed for the sitting room where Sherlock was... sitting? Just sitting there like nothing at all had just happened.

"What in the bloody hell are you playing at, Sherlock?" John spat at him, still not believing what had just occurred.

"Whatever do you mean, John?" the detective asked, innocently. Then he batted his eyelashes at John and smirked at him again. That did it. Captain Watson was activated. He grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled him out of his chair. He pulled him within an inch of his own face and smiled that scary smile that meant pain was coming.

"You want to play, luv?", he snarled, staring into Sherlock's eyes, daring him to pull another stupid face.

"No, John. I wish to be disciplined. There is quite a bit of difference. I can get the dictionary for you if you need to refresh yourself on their meanings."

John reached around and snapped the riding crop across Sherlock's thighs, hard, eliciting a surprised "Oh!"

"That's enough of your cheek, Sherlock."

"Well, technically, that wasn't my cheek at all. You struck too low. That was my thigh". John pushed Sherlock down across the back of the sofa, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down to his knees. He brought the crop down again, this time right across the right ass cheek. He left a brilliant red stripe too. "Oh, there you got it, John. Well done!"

"Shut up, Sherlock! Damn you, this isn't funny!"

"What will happen if I don't shut up?" Sherlock smirked over his shoulder.

"Are you trying to make me lose it again? Did you like that?" John snapped the crop down again on the other ass cheek, much harder this time

"Ah!" Sherlock cried. "I like it when you are in control John and when you clearly state what it is you want."

"What I want?" (smack) "I (smack) want (smack) us (smack) to (smack) go (smack) to (smack) bloody (smack) fucking (smack) Counseling!" (smack, smack, smack) These 12 blows were not nearly as hard as the previous two. John refused to let Sherlock push him to the point of losing control again. He was tired. He didn't want to hurt his lover. He just wanted them to communicate better. Why was that so hard for Sherlock to comprehend?.

"No you don't, John. You want me to listen. I'm listening now. Tell me what you want me to do differently, John."

"You're serious?" John pulled the madman back up to a standing position.

"I've never been more serious" Sherlock said, pulling his trousers back up and rubbing his sore back side."

"I want you to listen to me and consider my feelings. I want you to be kinder to other people, even though I doubt that'll ever happen, I still want it. And, and, and I want you to think, Sherlock. Just bloody think before you do stupid things, alright? That is all I want."

"John, all I ever do is think" Sherlock said and went to grab his violin.

"No! No. No. You don't, luv. If you did, I wouldn't want to strangle you half the time."

"But you want to fuck me the other half, so I'd say that's a pretty good average."

"Sometimes I want to do both at once, how about that? Does that sound functional to you?"

"Some people enjoy erotic asphyxia. I've never tried it, but I'd trust you to..."

"No, You complete wanker! I don't want to do that, that was not the point I was making. What I was trying to say is, you get me so confused I don't know whether to fuck you or kill you and THAT is not healthy, Sherlock. It just isn't."

"We are in not healthy, John. I'm a recovering drug addict who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. You are a war veteran with PTSD and a few other issues that make you a walking powder keg. No, we aren't healthy and we don't function like normal people do. But we don't want normal, do we? Normal is boring, it's ordinary and we'd both hate it."

"You run headlong into trouble without hesitation. Yes, you think to solve puzzles, but you do not think about consequences... ever."

"But, that is what you love about me, John. That is what you love about the work!" he played a few dramatic notes to emphasize his point.

"I don't want you to get hurt, Sherlock. Dammit. Why is that so hard for you to see?"

"You're a doctor. If I get hurt, you patch me up. That's what we do. It works." he played a riff from "Ode to Joy""

"I'm a doctor, but I can't bring you back from the dead! One of these days you will go to far and I will lose you, again... but... for real this time." John's voice cracked.

"Oh. I see. You..." Sherlock assumed that 'lost in my mind palace' look.

"No. Sherlock. You _don't_ see. Losing you would fucking destroy me. I've had a taste of that." John sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands. His brain was pounding now.

"You worry about me" Sherlock said softly, as if he'd really just realized that fact for the first time. John sighed long and loudly.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes. I worry about you constantly" John leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Was this genius really that clueless?

"I have gotten better. Don't you think so? I'm much better than I was before... us."

"In some ways, yes, yes you have. In others, not so much. I never know what I'm going to come home to, or if someday..." John couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit that beyond fearing that Sherlock would get himself killed, he might just wake up and be bored of John and wish to move on. If he was honest with himself, that was the reason Sherlock's infidelity with Miles had hurt so much. He'd be a fool not to know that other men and women found Sherlock as captivating as he did. How long, really, before a younger, more interesting man drew Sherlock's attention away?  As usual, the detective read his mind.

"Ah, so... you don't trust me, then?" Dammit. This was still about Miles! He knew it. John said he'd forgiven him, but deep down, he never would.

"I trust you in most things. But, I don't trust you to be careful... or careful enough with the thing that means the most to me."

"Meaning what? My body or your heart?" John looked up as if he'd been slapped. How bloody rude! But stripped of all the window dressing, there it was.

"I'm afraid... they are intertwined at this point, Sherlock. Sorry about that" Sherlock's mouth fell open. He gaped at John like a fish for at least 20 seconds before recovering his cool demeanor.

"Would you like to hit me some more?" he asked holding the riding crop out to John. John stared at him while running this question through his mind six ways from sunday.

"Would I... _what_? No! Sherlock. No. In fact, I think I'd like to be alone for awhile, actually. I'm going to go for a walk. We can talk later, or... not" John grabbed his coat and flew down the stairs and out the door before Sherlock could even respond.

"Oh" said the detective, still holding the riding crop and feeling quite befuddled as his Lover/Blogger disappeared. "Oh, bugger."

***********************

Sebastian Moran was cleaning one of his many guns on Jim Moriarty's dining room table. This particular gun was his new favorite, the Glock 37. He'd spent the morning at the firing range, blowing off steam and putting the gun through its paces. Moriarty was getting a manicure and watching french gay porn on the big screen in the sitting room.

"Do we have to watch this shit, Jim?" Moran groused as he applied a thin layer of oil to the weapon's spring and barrel of the .45 Glock automatic.

"What's a matter lover, afraid you'll have an accidental discharge?" Jim smirked. Sebastian groaned and slid the barrel and spring back into place.

"You know me better than that, old friend. I only shoot when I'm ready... and I never, ever miss" Moran grinned, mischievously.

"Well, we can discuss that little statement later. For now, I have a new assignment for you" he dismissed the manicurist with a wave of his newly polished hand.

"Does it involve babysitting your latest plaything? That boy is getting on my nerves" Moran racked the slide back on the .45 and smiled at the sound.

"Miles? Why? What has he done to annoy you, Seb? Did he have the audacity to be younger? Prettier? Or just be in my bed more than you are?" Jim winked and smirked.

Moran gave Jim an "are you serious" look and grunted. "He just looks guilty of something all the time, you know what I mean?"

"Well then, you're going to love this, Seb!"' Jim laughed, "Miles told me that he used to fuck Sherlock Holmes! Can you believe it?" He waggled his eyebrows and popped his gum.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Jim? That kid is an associate of Holmes and you've got him living with you. Have you lost your ever-loving mind?

"He said it was years ago, but who knows?"

"That shit is not right, old friend. You cannot trust that little bastard, I don't care how good he is with his mouth" Jim's eyes darkened, suddenly. Not a good sign.

"I suppose you're right, Seb. At the very least, maybe we can use him to fuck with Sherlock and his pets, or maybe even lure Sherlock to us. That might be fun."

"Whatever you say, Jim. But I'd just like to see you rid of him sooner rather than later."

"I love it when you're jealous, Seb. It touches my... heart." Jim said, grabbing his crotch and growling the last word. "Perhaps I'll let you play with Miles later, but, for now, just keep an eye on him for me. I've got a full day in town with the respectable people" Jim kissed the top of Moran's head, put on his Ray Bans and checked himself over in the full length mirror. Satisfied with what he saw, he popped his gum again and headed out for his business lunch.

Moran reloaded his magazines with brand new Gold Dot 230 Grain rounds, racked one into the chamber of the Glock and then tucked his baby into the soft leather shoulder holster. He switched off the television and listened for noises in the penthouse. He could hear music coming from the kitchen area, that latin, tango crap that Miles likes. Moran grinned, ferally, and went to see what was cooking.

Miles was dancing around the kitchen wearing nothing but tiny shorts and a spaced out look. He was shaking his ass to the beat and after a dramatic spin he noticed he was not alone and smiled brightly at Moran. "Hey, Tiger, you want a smoothie?" he asked flashing teeth that were whiter than humanly possible.

"No, Miles. I do not want a smoothie. Jim's going to be gone all day. What are your plans?" Moran inquired watching the boy's face closely.

"Oh! I didn't know that" Miles pouted, "I was hoping he'd take me shopping. That fucker didn't even say goodbye!"

"Careful, Miles. That "fucker" could tire of you at any moment. Who would take you shopping then?"

"You?" the big, white smile was back. Moran's laugh came out in a roar.

"WAHAHAHA! By God, Miles. I'll give you credit. For a little guy, you have a big set of brass balls. You're ok by me, kid, ha ha ha."

Miles spun again and grabbed his smoothie. Sucking the straw, suggestively, he winked at Moran. "I do have many talents, besides dancing, you know?"

"Yes, I've heard Miles. Word to the wise, though, Poppet. Jim does not like to share his toys."

"Ah, well. I thought he loved you more than that. Guess I was wrong" he threw the rest of the smoothie down the garbage disposal and ran some water over it. "You wanna go shopping with me, Tiger? I might need someone big and strong like you to carry all the bags."

"Sure, Miles. I'd be delighted to go shopping with you. Shall we take the Jag or the Hummer?"

"The Jag, of course. I hate that Hummer! It's the most pretentious thing ever." With that, Miles ran up the stairs to get dressed. Moran turned the stereo off and texted Jim.

_**I'm taking your princess shopping. Anything you need?** _

He didn't expect a reply but thought it was only right to let Jim know what was what.

********************************

Miles slumped against the wall in his room. His knees were shaking so bad he was surprised Moran hadn't heard them knocking. He was in serious fucking trouble. Jim would not leave him alone with Moran unless he was done with him. Jim knew how Moran was. He knew Miles would not be safe with that maniac. Miles had to get the fuck away from Jim and Moran. He had to contact Sherlock and beg him to get him out of this mess. Sherlock would know what to do. He knew people. He had money. Sherlock would fix it. He would. He would. Miles tucked his passport into his mini backpack along with his phone and his credit cards. He dressed comfortably in light, loose clothing and new trainers in case he had to run. He grabbed his straight razor and tucked it in his pants. Then he put on his expensive sunglasses, the ones Jim had bought him in Rome that time, and he smiled in the mirror. Time to act cool. Time to go shopping with a crazy psychopath who was entirely capable of slitting his throat after raping him or worse. This was going to be one hell of a day.

*************************************

John Watson wandered the streets around 221B until he felt silly. Then he went into a nearby pub and ordered himself a pint. He drank it slowly while watching a little football on the television in the corner. He knew he was just stalling, but he wasn't ready to go home. He wasn't ready to deal with Sherlock and everything that had happened or would happen or might happen and for fuck's sake he was an army doctor! He was a soldier and a grown man. This was ridiculous. He should just put an end to it right now. As if that were even a possibility. As if he'd ever be the one to leave. He wasn't fooling anyone, not even himself. He was royally screwed. Obsessed with a genius/maniac who held his very heart in his hand. There was no living without Sherlock. There wasn't even going to be existing. He'd tried that already. He would not go through that again.

He'd been a fool to suggest the counseling. Sherlock wasn't going to change, not anymore than he already had. He'd have to let the thing with Miles go. For both their sakes. It didn't do to dwell on these things. He said he'd forgiven Sherlock and now he had to actually do it. Forgive and forget. Let it go and not try to imagine Sherlock being sucked off in a bathroom by his ex-lover. Sure. Fine. Good. It might take awhile, but in time those thoughts and visions would fade. Wouldn't they? Surely all that they'd already been through proved that this too would pass. There was no reason to lay in bed thinking those thoughts and imagining those things until tears ran down the side of his face and he struggled to breathe. Was there? Really?

He paid his tab, got up and left the pub. As he walked home he thought about his family, all of his old friends, all of his mates in the army, every girl he'd ever been with, every girl he'd ever wanted but never got. None of them, not one had even meant what Sherlock meant to him. Part of him got comfort from that and part of him was terrified by it. When he got to 221B, he stood on the porch and heard he echoes of their laughter in his head. Sherlock did know how to make John laugh. He slipped his key in the lock and crept up the stairs.

Sherlock's door opened with a slow creak. Of course he was awake. He was always awake. John went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. As he looked down the hall, he saw Sherlock standing in his door in just the camo pants and dog tags.

"John?' he asked softly.

"Yes, Love?"

"Would you like to come lie down... with me... for a bit?" Sherlock's face was hidden in shadow but the tone of his voice told John that there was an unspoken need there.

"Alright."

Sherlock turned without another word and went back into his room. When John entered the room, it was only illuminated by a single candle's flame. Sherlock stood at the end of the bed with his hands clasped in front of him. His head was down. John sat on the edge of the bed, but didn't say a word. Soon Sherlock came to him and knelt on the floor with his head, once again, on John's knee. John ran his hand through the dark curls and then softly across the back of Sherlock's neck. He felt Sherlock shudder at the touch.

"Come on up here, then." He said, pulling at his shoulder. Sherlock rose and sat next to him. John put a hand on Sherlock's bare knee and soon his hand was covered by one of Sherlock's own. John flipped his palm over and spread his fingers wide, interlacing them with Sherlock's, then he pulled their hands up to his mouth and kissed the back of Sherlock's lightly.

"Thank you again for dinner the other night, Sherlock. It was really quite good and completely out of character for you".

"It was the least I could do, John."

"No. No. You could've done nothing. In fact, I'd wager that a year ago, you would have done nothing."

"A year ago, we weren't lovers, John."

"True, but I appreciate it nonetheless" John said, kissing Sherlock's hand again then releasing it and stretching.

"Can I take your shirt off, John?"

"Alright."

Sherlock stood before him and began unbuttoning the shirt. John slipped his arms around the detective's waist and pulled him to him, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's belly against the side of his face. Sherlock rubbed John's shoulders and back, reverently. John breathed in the scent of him and moved his hands to that very toned bottom.

"I really like these camo pants, pet" he chuckled, slipping his hands up the leg holes and squeezing Sherlock's ass with both hands. "But, let's take them off now, shall we?"

Sherlock complied and stood in the candlelight naked. John removed his own clothes and then laid back on the bed with his knees bent over the side. He motioned to Sherlock to come to him and then he pulled him down onto his chest and wrapped him in his arms, kissing his temple. As he felt Sherlock start to relax, he ran a hand down his spine.

"Would you allow me to do one more small thing for you, John... please?"

"Depends on what it is, I guess" John replied, running that hand back up the detective's back, feeling how thin he was. Too thin. He frowned and made a mental note to give him another serving of pie in the morning. "When's the last time you ate?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"I don't know" Sherlock answered and started kissing his way down John's neck.

"That is an unacceptable answer, Sherlock, and you know it."

"I know. I will do better, I promise" he said, between kissed on John's collar bone. John decided to let the matter drop, for now. Sherlock continued to pepper his chest with soft, revenant kisses and small licks before latching onto his left nipple and suckling there, firmly. John felt himself harden immediately.

"Jesus, you know what that does to me, Sherlock"

"Mmhm" came the muffled reply then John felt a hand tracing lightly down his side.

"Stop it. That tickles."

"Mmhm" he heard again before Sherlock detached himself and proceeded down his belly with more soft kisses and gentle licks and then it was "Oh, oh, yes, Jesus, yes" and it was hot and wet and tight and fantastic and he let his mind go and just drifted in the wonder that was Sherlock's mouth on his cock. After an embarrassingly short time, he came, hard and gasped and clutched at Sherlock's hair. That fucking lump was back in his throat and his eyes were swimming. "Alright, Sherlock. You win. No fucking counseling".

"You surrender much too easily, John." Sherlock said in between licks across John's belly "Which surprises me, coming from a military man. I would have gone for you, at least once. If for nothing else than the opportunity to torment the poor _professional_ and possibly get you to giggle at an inappropriate time. That is, after all, one of my very favorite hobbies."

"You cunt waffle!" John chuckled.

"Tea?" the genius asked, springing from the bed and heading to the door.

"I'd love some and then I'll show you what this old military man can do" Sherlock stopped mid-step and turned back with an absolutely wicked smile.

"I cannot wait to see your plan of attack...Captain."

*************************


	6. Chapter 6

Miles had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised. Stunned, in fact. Moran had been more than a gentleman all day. He'd taken him to all the finest men's clothing stores and sat patiently while he tried on clothes for what seemed like hours. He'd kept his hands to himself, for the most part, and didn't even try to come into the dressing room with him. When he insisted that Miles put the whole shebang on Jim's business AMEX, Miles kissed him on the cheek and went back for the Westwood suit he'd been drooling over. Waste not, want not, right?

After loading the bags into the Jag, Seb had then taken him to this ridiculously posh restaurant for a late lunch. The food had been divine! Yes, the portions were tiny for the price, but the Martinis were huge and top shelf. By the time he'd finished his third one, Miles was starting to think that he'd misjudged Jim's right hand man. He studied Moran from across the table. Handsome, rugged, confident, very fit, yes, all of that. But Lethal? In the late afternoon light, with fine china and crystal in front of him, Seb just did not look like a monster.

Perhaps Moran wasn't Jim's psychopathic hitman after all. Perhaps there was more to him than that. Maybe, viewed objectively, "Sebby" was just a giant, muscle-bound, steely-eyed misunderstood former-soldier who happened to work for a man with no soul. And further, he might be employed by said maniac to perform duties other than torture, mayhem and homicide. It could happen. Right? And this Completely-Non-Lethal-Gentleman could take someone like Miles for a day of shopping and lunch with no nefarious intent whatsoever. Couldn't he?

Miles mulled this all over in his Martini-muddled mind and then, without intending to, he began to giggle. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what was he thinking? This man could probably kill him six different ways with just his salad fork. Giggle. And how had Miles prepared for battle? He'd gotten drunk or allowed himself to be gotten drunk and now he couldn't run from this freak show if a herd of bulls were charging at him. giggle, snort.

"You all right, there Miles?" Sebastian asked from behind his cloud of menace and Polo cologne.

"Well, Sebastian. I'm not quite sure. I feel the need to visit the loo but my legs aren't quite cooperating. Wonder how I'll manage that?" he said with a wink and a smirk.

"Hmmmmm. Well, I suppose I could carry you" Moran said, completely deadpan. "If you'd like that".

Miles stared at him for the count of 5 and then laughed. "Ah, I don't think that will be necessary, but thank you ever so much for your kind offer" he said and slinked off to the men's room to the sound of Moran's inappropriately loud laughter. Once securely locked in the eerily black marble stall, he took 3 deep, cleansing breaths, then put his finger down his throat and deposited his stomach's contents into the toilet bowl. Hopefully most of the alcohol had not been absorbed already. After wiping his mouth and his hands with 2-ply, he fumbled for his mobile and texted Sherlock.

Can U get me out of London? JM is going to kill me. Text me from a cold phone: Y or N

As soon as he'd gotten confirmation that the text had gone through, he deleted the conversation from his phone, took a piss and washed his trembling hands. He checked himself in the mirror. His eyes were a little red from puking, but not too bad. He could still do this. He could still get out of this stupid place alive if he just kept smiling and gave Moran no reason to hurt him.

Mr. Lethality was waiting for him at the table, devouring a huge piece of chocolate cake with an obscene amount of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top of it. "You want my cherry, Miles?" he chortled and dangled the garnish from his thumb and forefinger. "Show me that thing where you tie the stem in a knot with your tongue! I love that!"

Miles slipped back into his seat and found a fourth martini waiting for him. Shit, there was no way he could absorb another martini without disastrous results. But Moran seemed pretty lit himself, so that was a plus. He grabbed another piece of bread and began tearing off chunks and eating them as fast as he could. "So, Tiger", he said between bites, "Shall we make our way back home now? I've got a bit of a headache and I'm sure you must have other things to attend to for Jim."

"Don't be silly, Miles. Jim will be gone for hours. He wanted me to show you a good time. If we go home, I'm going to get bored and if I get bored, you might get hurt! So, let's go have some more fun, ok?" The smile was gone and Miles felt his balls cringe in fear. "I'm thinking we need some sugar scrubs, mud wraps and maybe a hot stone massage? What do you think, Miles? I know you've always wanted to see what I've got under my clothes. Let's go sit in the sauna together naked and get to know each other better"

"Uhm, yeah. That sounds... great, Seb. Let's do that." Sweet little tap-dancing Baby Jeezus, this was bad.

"After you finish your drink, Poppet" Moran sneered.

"Oh, thank you, no. I've had enough"

"Oh, come on, Miles! We're having fun! Show me that thing with the cherry stem, finish your drink and then we'll go", Moran was smiling, but his eyes flashed with anger.

Miles rolled his eyes, and took the cherry stem from Moran's fingers. He then gulped down the 4th martini, chewed up the olives and silently sent up a prayer that Sherlock got that text. "I haven't had a sugar scrub in years" he beamed. He put the cherry stem in his mouth and with a few more tries than normal, produced a nice knot, much to Moran's delight. "Maybe we can get Brazilians while we're at it? Manicures, pedicures, brow waxing, the works!" Miles thought that this trying to act natural stuff was not as easy as it sounded on TV.

He stood up, flashed his best 'I'm not terrified' smile at Moran, ran his hand down the big man's arm and started toward the exit. "Let's go, Tiger!" he said, with a twirl. If he could make it to the front door, he could always cause a scene. Moran wouldn't kill him in front of a whole taxi stand of people and those security cameras. Would he?

If he could... just... make... it... to... the... ahh, dammit. He could see the damned revolving door in the distance. He was almost there, but seemed to not be getting any closer. He heard a woman laughing to his right. What's so funny? He felt a hand on his left elbow, guiding him. Moran? The flowers in the lobby were so beautiful. Stargazer lilies, weren't they? He wondered if they were real or silk. He could smell their sweetness, so they must be real, right? Or was that the laughing woman's perfume? While pondering this epic question, Miles noticed that the room had begun to spin ass-over-tea-kettle once, twice, again and then his knees buckled.

He heard someone say "It's alright. He's just had one too many. I'll take him home. It's alright". His mind screamed at him, NO! NO! DO NOT LET HIM TAKE YOU. But his body wouldn't work and now he was being carried, carried away, away from... who?

"Sherlock?" he asked no one in particular. Then he heard a Tiger roar and knew that he was truly lost. As the blackness took him, he could still smell the flowers.

**************************

Sherlock was up to his elbows in goat intestines when he heard the text alert chirp on his phone. "John, can you grab that for me, please?"

"Sure, you expecting a text?" the doctor asked while strolling over to Sherlock's coat to rummage through the pockets.

"No, but maybe it's Lestrade. We could use a distraction."

"Too right" John held up the phone "Shall I?"

"Of course, John. Don't be obvious" Sherlock huffed. So, John opened the phone and then immediately threw it on the intestine covered table. "What the fuck, John?".

"It's from Miles, Sherlock! So, yes, exactly, What. The. Fuck?"

"Well, did you read the text or just lose your mind when you saw his name?"

"I will smack you into the wall, Sherlock. Do not get mouthy with me."

"For Heaven's sake, John. Let's see what the text actually says, before you threaten me with bodily violence... again" Sherlock wiped his hands off on the tea towel and grabbed the phone. What he saw in the message made him scowl.

"Well? Does he want to have lunch again, or, or is it an invite to an orgy this time?"

"John, stop it. Miles is apparently in trouble and he's asking for help."

"Help? Tell him to sod off. You're not helping him."

"Well, regardless of your distaste for Miles, my distaste for Jim Moriarty trumps it and apparently Miles has gotten himself into trouble with Dear Jim"

"You're kidding?"

"Do I ever kid about Moriarty, John?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I've got to get Lestrade to triangulate his location. Call Mycroft and tell him what's up. Hopefully they don't change locations before we get there. Dammit!"

************************************

Miles wondered where Jim had gotten this pool full of honey... and how he kept it warm like this. It must have cost a fortune. But oh, it was so worth it. It felt so lovely on his skin. It warmed him to the bone. He had never felt better in his life. The headache that had been nagging him for days was gone. He felt sleepy and warm and at peace with the world. He didn't remember having an orgasm, but he must have done because he was floating in that happy space he always went to when he came. Or was he? This felt different. Better? He tried to open his eyes, but they were just too heavy. So, he drifted away into the pool of warm honey. Honey is lovely, he thought. It's made by little bees isn't it? Sherlock knows about bees. Sherlock knows everything. Does he know where I am? Will he find me in all this honey? Will he climb in the pool and float with me?

*************************************

Lestrade's team triangulated Miles' location to within a radius of 100 feet. Mycroft's cameras did the rest. They showed Miles in the company of Sebastian Moran. He appeared to have been drugged and was practically being carried into a parking garage. A light colored Jaguar exited the garage 3 minutes later. That had been an hour ago. Moran could've covered a lot of ground in that hour... or done an incredible amount of damage. Sherlock hoped it was the former, but feared he was wrong. Tracking the phone's GPS, marked units found the Jaguar in particularly nasty part of East London. They also found Miles' mobile phone in the back seat. Thankfully a foot canvas of the local area proved productive. One of the local drug addicts saw a man matching Miles' description being carried into a motel room by a second, much larger man. Once the motel was surrounded, they'd kicked the door in, forgoing the warrant due to exigent circumstances. Moran was gone, and Miles was a bloody mess. The smiley face on the wall, drawn in his Miles' blood, nearly put Sherlock on the floor. He began barking orders at everyone until Lestrade told John to take him away from the scene. They followed the ambulance to the hospital in a taxi. Neither of them spoke a word the whole trip. What could be said after seeing such intimate violence?

*********************************

Was he dead? Had he really fucking died in bloody London, of all places? How pathetic? But he figured he must've done because he was floating, in the honey? in the ocean? in the clouds?, and he could hear a beautiful voice. A voice full of love and care for him was saying "Miles, I'm here" and "Stay with me, Miles". And since the voice sounded just like an angel, he must be in heaven. So he must be dead, right? He still couldn't open his eyes, though. Why was that? Were they stuck together from all the honey? Or was he actually in Hell? Whichever it was, at least he wasn't in the company of Sebastian Moran or Jim Moriarty. Wait. Was he? He figured he better check. He reached up with his right hand to open his eyelid by force.

"No. No. Don't do that, Miles. Your eyes need to heal, Love" He felt a large hand grasp his own and squeeze it, gently. The angel! He had to know where he was. He decided to ask. He cleared his throat and OUCH! It was so sore and felt so dry. Maybe he'd sample a little of that honey now. His Gran had always given him honey and lemon for a sore throat. Was she here? If this was heaven, she had to be, right?

"Gran?" he moaned. He heard a deep chuckle. Was that his Granddad? No, that abusive bastard was in the other place. Oh, shit. Maybe this really was Hell, and the abuse would start again and go on and on for eternity now!. He swung his left arm out. "Get away you bastard!" He wanted to scream it, but it came out as a choked whine.

"Hey, now! That's no way to treat the man who saved you." A woman's voice. But which woman?

"Gran?", he cried. He was truly scared now. The large hand let go of his and a smaller, softer one took it's place. Another hand patted his brow with something.

"Ah, sweet. I'm not your Gran, just a nurse. My name's Judith and I've come to see how you're doing for pain. Are you hurting, much?"

"Nurse?", he asked. Why are there nurses in Heaven? And why would he need a nurse if he was dead?

"Yes, Love. You're in hospital. Pretty banged up. But your friends are here with you." Miles felt a bolt of fear shot through him.

Friends? Who? Jim and Seb? "They aren't...they tried to kill me!"

"Who did, Love?"

"Jim and... Seb! Don't let them take me! Where is Sherlock? I need Sherlock" Miles was trying to scramble backwards, away from danger. He hit the headboard and covered his face, defensively.

"Miles. I'm here. Miles, it's Sherlock. You know my voice. Now, listen to me. You are safe. Jim and Seb are far away and you are safe. Do you understand?"

Sherl?" he squeaked, not trusting his own ears or his muddled mind. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, Miles. We found you. You are safe"

"You're the angel?"

"Well, that takes the cake!" a new voice said, then laughed. "Can't wait til The Yard hears that! A bloody Angel!"

"Shush, John. He's medicated. You know better", the angel scolded and took Miles' hand again. "Miles, what do you remember?"

"Four Martinis. That's how I knew"

"Knew what?"

"That they were going to kill me. Did they? Am I dead?"

John rolled his eyes "You two are perfect for each other. I don't know which of you is the bigger drama Queen! You aren't dead, Miles! Not even close!"

"John, Please!" Sherlock barked, throwing the doctor a death glare. "They drugged one of your drinks, Miles, that's for sure. What else do you remember?"

"Honey."

"Honey?"

"You like bees, Sherlock" Miles said smiling. "Their honey made me think of you and now you're here."

"This is bloody pointless, Sherlock. I'm going for tea", said the other voice. John? Who was that? Another angel?

"Who is that, Sherlock? Your angel friend?"

Sherlock chuckled again, but since John had left the room, he could answer Miles honestly. "Actually, Miles, that's a good description. In a way, John is very much my guardian angel"

"You're lucky"

"Yeah"

"But he's unhappy"

"Yeah"

"Why?"

"Because of me, but let's talk about you, ok? What else do you remember?"

"I was scared, Sherlock. I was so scared. My legs quit working. I tried so hard to get to the door."

"I know you did, Miles ."  Sherlock wondered if  _he_  had ever looked this lost and scared. Had Mycroft or Lestrade ever held his hand and assured him he was safe. He was sure they probably had, but wished he could actually remember it.

"I can't remember after that. Can you? What happened?"

"We'll talk about that after the doctor comes, ok? For now, just know you're safe and I'm not going to leave you alone, alright?"

"OK. I've... I've missed you, Sherlock." The detective froze. This was sentiment. This was honesty, under the influence of serious pain medicine. What was he supposed to say to that? Feeling like a coward, he chose not to respond. Instead he gave the hand in his own another squeeze and pressed the call button for the nurse. "What's wrong with my eyes, Sherlock? Am I blind?"

"No. I don't think so, Miles. But you've had some reconstructive surgery. Your eyes are very swollen right now and will be for some time, I think"

"Surgery? Why?"

"Your eyes were... hurt, Miles" Sherlock said, softly. God how did he tell him what was done to him? That Moran had found the straight razor and... Luckily, the nurse returned. "I think he needs something to help him sleep, Judith."

"No! Sherlock, tell me what happened! Please, tell me."

"Later Miles. For now, you need to rest" he nodded to the nurse, who shot something into the IV.

"Don't leave, Sherlock. I'm scared and I'm blind and... I'm scared" Miles sobbed, gulping air and shuddering, still squeezing Sherlock's hands..

"I won't leave, Miles, but you need to rest, ok?

"Don't... leave" , he managed before slipping into darkness again.

************************

Sherlock was sitting in the chair next to the bed, head in hands when John returned a while later with tea and scones for 3. A peace offering? Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow at him but took one of the paper cups with a nod.

"Did he remember anything?"

"Not really" Sherlock says flatly.

"How long do you intend to stay here?"

"Until he's stable", again, flat, matter of fact.

"Physically or mentally?"

"Well, Doctor, what would you advise?" ah, here's a bit of the Sherlock John knows, finally.

"I guess I deserve that."

"I've never seen you so inconsiderate, John. What is going on?" Sherlock asks, but keeps his eyes on Miles.

"I don't want him playing on your sympathies, is all."

"What would you have me do?"

"Pack him off to his family!"

"Like the Army did to you? Tell me, again, exactly how did that work out for you?" The question hits its mark.

"Don't drag me into this. This isn't about me. This is about you"

"Then, why exactly are you here?" Sherlock finally looks at him and John sees anger? no, rage, in his eyes.

"I've been asking myself that all day, mate" John says as he walks toward the door. Turning, he adds, "Oh, and in case you've forgotten, I didn't cut up your friend there, Sherlock. So, your anger seems a bit misdirected, yeah? He danced with the devil and he paid the price. But it's got fuck all to do with me." And with that, he's gone.

Sherlock sipped his tea, glared at the scones for 4 1/2 minutes, then texted Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Your friend John needs a pint and your ear - SH

****************

John is just leaving the front exit of the hospital when a familiar black car pulls up to the curb. He snatches the back door open and hisses, "Piss off, Mycroft!" at the government official and his sodding toff umbrella. Mycroft arches an eyebrow at him, exactly as Sherlock had done minutes ago.

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson", he says calmly. John complies but slams the door, like a child.

"You were supposed to get rid of him!" John's on the verge of shouting and feels his face redden.

"That plan is still in the works, John. These things take time if they are to be successful. Problem?"

"Yes! Your brother has suddenly become Mother Teresa to a manipulative git of an ex-fuck-buddy!"

"You do surprise me, Doctor. Anyone who has ever known Sherlock has yearned for him to be more compassionate. Now that he's actually displaying a very human trait, you're angry with him? "

"I just don't understand this sudden change. Why is he doing this... sentiment thing now?"

"John, my brother has a soft spot for stray dogs, lost causes and broken souls"

"Since when?"

"Ah, as ever, Doctor, you see but you do not observe. Surely, you of all people should recognize Sherlock's real capacity to love."

"Love? are you saying he loves Miles?"

"No. I'm saying he loves you and has grown in his time with you. That he's now openly demonstrating traits which you have modeled for him should be all the proof you need"

"So, I'm supposed to stand by and..."

"You may do as you wish, John. But if we observe his behavior, objectively, what might it tell you about his heart"

"I don't know"

"and there lies the problem, I think. Consider this, John. This young man, Miles, represents a reflection in Sherlock's mirror. Miles reminds him of how he used to be and how he might be still if not for the intervention of Lestrade, myself and... you. I believe he's modeling the care-taking tendencies he's absorbed from you and applying it to another version of himself. It's really quite remarkable."

"I hadn't thought of it that way"

"Clearly"

"So how much longer?"

"I cannot accurately say and so I won't try. Let Sherlock exorcise this...ghost that's haunting him. Let him take care of Miles and make peace with his past..."

"Or else?"

"Or I'm afraid you may jeopardize your entire future together."

"you cannot be serious!"

"I think you know me well enough, Doctor to know that that I'm always serious when it comes to my little brother's welfare."

"And what about my welfare, Mycroft? Does my well-being always take a back seat?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought that you agreed with all of us that your life has been greatly improved since moving into 221B with Sherlock. If I am incorrect in that assumption, I do apologize."

"All of us?"

"Do you think you are doing this alone, John? Do you think no one else is watching the two of you, fingers crossed, cheering for you both to bring each other peace and happiness? Are you really so blind?"

"Who..." but the door is opened from the outside. His cue to leave.

"Good Day, Doctor Watson. I am already quite late" Mycroft says as he turns his attention to the file folder in his lap.

As John exits the car, he hears the text alert on his phone.

Wanna catch the match tonight? - Greg

He chuckles to himself. So Lestrade is one of the people cheering for them. He texts his answer.

Yes, but NO talk about relationships! - JW

He considers going back up to Miles' room and falling on his sword, but texts Sherlock instead.

I'm sorry. Take as long as you need - JW . The response comes in seconds.

Thank you - SH

I'll be with Greg tonight. Text if you need anything - JW

Perhaps my guide to beekeeping, to read when he's sleeping - SH

Of course. Anything else I can do? - JW

Don't drink too much - SH

Alright. Please eat something - JW

Sherlock grinned to himself when the last text came in. John and his obsession with feeding him. All part of the caretaker gene, he supposed. He broke a piece off one of the scones and popped it into his mouth. Then he tapped out another text to John.

I AM eating. Some lovely person left me 3 scones - SH


	7. Chapter 7

The flowers arrived on the same day they unbandaged his face.  The stitches remained so he couldn't quite open his eyes properly, but the swelling had subsided enough to allow the two small slits which were now his windows on the world.  He'd insisted on being brought a mirror once they'd totally unveiled him. Sherlock tried to tell him to give it a few more days, but he wouldn't listen.  After gazing at the horror that stared back at him in the glass, he quickly wished he'd heeded that advice.  As he cried, the doctor blabbered on about furthr surgeries improving the scars and blah, blah, blah, but Miles knew no surgeon could fix this completely. There would always be scars. Reminders of his afternoon with The Tiger. He would never again be the head-turner he once was. Vanity, thy name is Miles. Or it was, anyway. 

But now there were flowers!  And who could cry when they had flowers to enjoy? The bouquet was breathtaking, both for the sheer number and variety of the blooms and for the almost overwhelming sweetness of their combined scents.  A honey bee's dream, Miles thought. The nurse had set them on the table next to the window. Miles noticed the small white note card stuck among the stems.

"Who are they from, Sherlock?" he asked with a shy smile at his friend, who had just looked up from his book as the bouquet had arrived.  He hoped Sherlock himself had sent them.  Who else knew he was here? Who else cared?

"I'm sure I have no idea" Sherlock said, rising from his chair. "But there's a card, as well. Shall I open it?"

"Yes, please" Miles said softly, disappointed.  These weren't from Sherlock, then.

Sherlock opened the card and froze at the printed message. Then turned toward the window so Miles couldn't see his face. It read:

 

**Regretably, pets often misbehave, but you are in good hands now.**

**Jim**

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"The flowers...they're from Moriarty, Miles. Would you like me to remove them?" Sherlock returned to the table and began to lift the vase.

"No, Sherlock!  I mean...I'd like you to tell me what the card says...please"  Miles answered.  Sherlock looked up to see the grimace on Miles' face.  His bruised eyes were pooled with tears.  That sadistic fuck. How could he have done this?  Miles was no threat to him. What use was there in tormenting him now?  "Please", Miles said again.  So, Sherlock read the message aloud and then put the card back into the bouquet.

"I don't think Jim told... _him_ to hurt me, Sherlock. I really don't"

"How can you know that?"

"I can't.  I can't know it, I just don't think he'd allow that. He cared about me".   Sherlock was stunned at this statement.  Was Miles really unaware of what a psychopath he'd been with?  "He's not all bad, Sherlock"

"Miles, have you....." he stopped himself.  "Tell me, Miles. How did you end up with...Jim?"

"That's not a happy question, Sherlock. You know how I am." Miles looked away. Embarrassed? Ashamed?

And Sherlock did know how his old friend was. Opportunistic, hopelessly romantic.  To steal from a rather sappy song, Miles was the proverbial candle in the wind. "Perhaps it's time for a change, then?"

"Yeah. Sure. And who will want me now, Sherlock?  Look at me!"

"You will heal...with time.  My brother knows some brilliant plastic surgeons."

"You know I'll never be the same...and what then?" 

"Well, this could be the chance for a fresh start.  What happens to you depends entirely on where you choose to go from here."

"Go?  I have no money, Sherlock.  No legitimate job skills. I have no family that will take me. No connections. Nothing."

"Well, I'm sure that if you were to agree to being debriefed, Mycroft can set you up with a new identity and a new...life, really, in any city you choose."

"Mycroft?  He hates me!  He'd just as soon see me dead, I'm sure. " Miles said in disbelief. 

As if he'd been waiting for his cue, Mycroft Holmes swept into the room with an air of authority and malice. "Miles, Miles" he sneered. "I see you haven't lost your penchant for melodrama."

"Oh, _that_ is rich coming from you, Mycroft" Sherlock smirked, rolling his eyes. "Miles and I were just discussing his future.  Does your offer to relocate him still stand?"

"Of course.  If he's agreeable to my conditions, I'd be happy to assist." Mycroft extended his hand to Miles and shook the returned grasp firmly.  "Give us a moment to chat, will you, Sherlock?" he added will assessing the patient with a cold eye.   Though formed as a question, it really was a command. Sherlock looked at Miles to confirm he was alright. When he got a small nod, he threw a cautionary look at Mycroft and went out the door.

"Sherlock has explained my offer to you, I suppose?"  Mycroft asked, while admiring the flowers.

"He said something about being... debriefed" 

"To start, yes, you'll be debriefed quite thoroughly, I'm afraid." Mycroft said with a smile quite incongruous to his words. "We'll need to know everything you know about Moriarty and his operations and, I assure you Miles, any attempt to withhold or distort information will terminate our arrangement and get you thrown into a very nasty facility for a very long time".  Miles watched Mycroft cross over to stand right next to his bed and stare down into his face.  Looking for signs of fear or deception, he supposed.  Sniffing about for clues?

"If that's just to... _start_   then what else do you want from me?" Miles wondered if he'd be asked to play double agent or worse, be used as bait. 

"Once you leave England you'll never come back and you will never attempt to make contact with James Moriarty....or Sherlock Holmes ever again."

But..." Miles started

"This is non-negotiable, I'm afraid. So agree to it now, before the debriefing, or we've nothing to discuss but your prison term"

"Prison term?  For what?" Miles pulled the thin blanket up to his chin. He'd hide under it if he thought it would help. 

"Do you believe for one moment that I couldn't have you convicted of a dozen crimes based on just my word?"

Miles stared at the elder Holmes brother. He always was a bastard. "You leave me no choice"

"Quite right, Miles.  None.  So, I'll have your answer now, please"

"Alright.  Alright. I agree.  Can I at least say goodbye to him?"

"Yes. After the debriefing, but you won't tell him of my second condition.  I don't want him feeling sorry for you or looking for you. Do you understand?"

"No. I don't understand.  I don't understand any of it and I don't like it. But you have my word. If that's what it takes to not go to prison."

"Excellent.  Now, have you given thought to your new future?" 

"I've...I've always wanted to go to Australia." Miles said, hesitantly, expecting to be laughed at or mocked.

"Ah!  Australia is lovely.  The bugs and wombats and sharks.  Just lovely."  That weird smile was back.  "That can easily be arranged, Miles, if you cooperate."

"I guess I should thank you...or something?"

"No need.  Just remember our agreement. And don't do anything stupid like try to run.  It will only buy you extra time"

"You don't fuck around, do you?"

"No. Never.  We'll be here to collect you on the day you're discharged. Listen to your doctors and I'm sure you'll be well in no time. Good Day." and he was gone.

 

******************************************

Since Sherlock found the hospital tea to be less than acceptable, he walked across the street to a cafe.  He'd just sat down when the text came in  

**He's damaged now so you can keep him - JM**

His hands began shaking so badly he had to put both his mobile and his tea down and concentrate on breathing.  How was he to answer that?  What game was the mad man playing at?  That sarcasm could not go unanswered. After a minute to compose himself, he punched in his answer.

**I once held a modicum of respect for your...elegance.  But this?  This was like drowning a kitten.  Unimpressive. Beneath you. - SH**

He set his phone down and steadied his breath, again.  Then, just when he had picked up his tea and concluded that there would be no answer, his phone vibrated once more. 

**And now your big brother will torture him to get information about me.  Soooooo, we square? - JM**

Sherlock felt his heart rate quicken.  This man had the ability to anger him like no other.  What he wouldn't give to strangle the little.....

**I look forward to killing your pet, personally. - SH**

The phone rang.  Sherlock felt himself flinch at the first ring.  He let it ring 7 times before finally answering.  "Yes?"

Moriarty laughed, then spoke in that familiar, flirtatious lilt. "Oh, don't be angry, Darling"  Sherlock held his tongue.  "Oh, come oooooon, Sherlock!  Miles means nothing to you.  If he did, you'd never have let him end up with the likes of me".  Sherlock still did not respond. "OK, maybe he _did,_ but what's done is done."  The silence on Sherlock's end continued.  Moriarty sighed.  "Besides, Dearest, if you hurt Seb, I'll have to hurt John and you don't want _that_ So, let's not start, alright?"

"I will end him, and I will end you." Sherlock said coolly. 

"Oh, Precious." the mad man laughed, "Oh, Love. Of course, you'll _try_.  I expect you to try. But in the end, I'll win.  Because you just care too much, Sherlock. You do!"  When Sherlock didn't respond, Moriarty continued.  "Oh, Honey, you've proven it this week. Sitting at his bedside.  Playing _nurse_.  Sherlock, you are just sugar and spice and everything nice!"  more laughter followed.  "Tell me, did you reminisce about the old days?  Did you tell him he'd be safe now?  Did he cry in your arms? Oh, it's like a bad B movie. It's just...aaaaaaaah" he mocked.   

"He is safe. And I will see you and that monster dead"  Sherlock hit the 'end' button and placed the phone back on the table.  It vibrated a moment later. Another text. 

 **I am sorry I've upset you.  I so want us to be close.  I'll let you cut up Seb if it'll make you happy. xx - JM**  

 

********************************************

On the day he was to be discharged, Miles woke to find a beautiful new bespoke suit hanging off the IV pole in his room. On the chair he found new shoes, a watch, and a leather messenger bag containing an ipod, a mobile phone, a laptop, a wallet full of cash and both credit cards and a passport bearing his new name.  While waiting for all the discharge paperwork to be completed, he took a shower and put the suit on. It fit like it was made for him, which obviously meant Mycroft had gotten it tailored just for him.  He sighed and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.  He felt a bit like Alice going down the rabbit  hole.  What would he find down there?  Anyone nice?   He turned from the mirror and found Sherlock standing just inside the door of the room, smiling at him, but with sad eyes.

"How do I look?"  he asked since he could think of nothing else to say.

"Like a man about to start a new life"  Sherlock replied.

"I don't really want I new life, Sherlock.  I wish..."

"Miiiiiiiles", Sherlock said it as a warning.  'Don't start that', he meant.  'Don't go there'.  'Beyond that place there be dragons'  

"I have to say it.  I wish it could be... like it was....with us"

"That was a long time ago, Miles. We aren't those people anymore"

"I know, but...we were....good, for a time, weren't we?" his voice cracked and his bruised eyes pooled up.

"Yes, Miles. We were good, for awhile" it cost him nothing to give this gift. If it made Miles happy to think their very fucked-up drugged-up sexed-up time together was good, who was he to say it wasn't? Hindsight being what it is, it was very easy to view that time cynically. But while it was happening, they had found a kind of happiness.

"We...I...I know that I wasn't exactly good for _you_ , Sherlock. I know that. But I also know that our time together was good for me." Miles looked away and rubbed at his left eye. Sherlock took his right hand in his own and squeezed it.

"Who's to say what's good or not good, Miles? If it weren't for you, I might have been dead by 23. You might have been my saving grace. So, now. Let me be yours. Take this chance and start fresh. Don't look back. And more importantly, don't lose hope. You deserve happiness...and love and peace now". Miles turned back to him, blinked tears from his eyes and then smiled a brave smile.

"I've got some time to kill here. Tell me about the day we met, Sherlock". Miles pulled him to the chairs by the window and they both sat down.

"Oh, I'm not sure I remember..."

"Yes, you do. You remember. You always tell it so well. And...since you're going to leave me...again...soon, I just want to hear you tell the story one more time, before I let you go" Miles squeezed Sherlock's hand like it was the only thing holding him to planet. Sherlock cleared his throat and did his best to remember and tell the an old tale.

"Well, as I recall, it was very early on a thursday morning, in late January..."

"The 22nd, I think it was..." Miles interjected.

"Ah, it was. It was. and you were being harassed by some rather intoxicated men in an alley outside that disgusting club you liked."

"Those idiots.  I remember how you handled them, too.  Put them in their places real quick"

"Well, martial arts do come in handy, at times"

"You broke the one's nose and the other one ran off. Gits!"

"yes, as most cowards do.  I cleaned you up a bit in the cub's loo and after that we walked a bit and then went to get you some coffee at that little place with all the squirrel figurines and what not, do you remember?"

"I do. They were everywhere, even on the cups and napkins! I haven't seen a squirrel trinket that didn't remind me of that place...and you" Miles was laughing now.

"I believe coffee led to breakfast and you put away your own weight in sausages and biscuits before we said goodbye to those squirrels."

"I don't think I'd eaten in three days, Sherlock and I was going to fill up while a charmer like you was buying." Miles grinned. Then his smile faded and after a moment he asked, " Why did you invite me back to your place that day?"

"Oh, I don't know, Miles. Something told me to do it.  Something about you made me feel...protective, I guess."

"Something about you made me feel other things"  Miles rubbed the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, there was quite a bit of _that_ over the following months, as I recall"  Sherlock actually felt himself blushing at these memories. What was he, a 12-year old girl now?  He pulled his hands away from Miles and stood up.  Miles, sensing the sudden discomfort, didn't attempt to hold onto Sherlock.  Instead, he adjusted himself in the bed and cleared his throat.

"Do you love him? your John?" he asked when the silence got to be too much.  Sherlock could feel the other man's eyes on him and he turned to face him. 

"Yes...very much...more than I'd thought possible", Sherlock said, wistfully. He hadn't meant to let that out, but now that he had, he felt relieved. He couldn't afford to give Miles any false hope that they'd rekindle old times. He cared for the man's welfare but John held his heart.  Better to get that in the open now, for the sake of everyone.

"That's good.  You need someone to look after you, Sherlock.  Someone sensible. Someone dependable."

"Hmmmm", Sherlock looked at him skeptically. What was he up to now?

"Have you been together long?'

"Long enough...I suppose.   Listen, I think we need to talk about what happens next with you, Miles...."

"You should tell him, Sherlock"

"What?" of course he'd heard what had been said, but he needed time to think.

"You should tell him every day...that you love him.  That's...important to say, and important to hear"

Sherlock blinked, speechless for a moment. "You're right. I don't do that near enough. I guess none of us do."

Miles closed his eyes, lowered his chin and put his hands in his lap. He took two deep breaths, as if preparing for a cliff dive. Then he brought his head up and threw his arms open wide. Was he requesting an embrace? Sherlock hesitated, not sure what to do.  "Oh, come here, Sherlock. I won't bite you." Still, Sherlock didn't move. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock. It's ok.  I'm ready to say goodbye!  But I'd like one last hug before I let you go, alright?" Sherlock slowly walked to the bed, sat on the edge and took Miles into his arms.

"I don't think it's likely we'll see each other again" Miles said, voice cracking.

"I suspect you are right"

"Don't forget me, ok?" his voice was almost a whisper now.

"How could I ever forget you, Miles?"  Suddenly, Sherlock felt that he'd been captured by a python.  The embrace became ever more constricting until, with a gasp or sob, Miles released him. With his eyes closed again he turned his face away and said simply," Go. Now."  Sherlock rose, squeezed Miles' shoulder then walked from the room. 

* * * * 

Climbing up the stairs to 221 B, Sherlock Holmes felt suddenly very old.  He had pain in his knees and the steps had gotten much steeper than they'd been just the day before.  Resting half way up the climb, his legs felt heavier and colder than any time he could remember.  His lungs ached a bit too, or was that his heart?  He pressed his back against the wall and tried to breathe but even that felt like too much work for this day. He just wanted to be in bed now, wrapped around his Captain. 

The door of their flat opened and John Watson peered down at him, wearing an apron, hot mitts and a perturbed look.  "What are you doing, Sherlock?  I've got dinner waiting up here for you!"   Sherlock stared up at him for a beat or two and then sank to the step, laughing.  "What's so funny, you great git?  I've been at it for hours, I'll have you know.  Get your arse up here, right now!"  When John put his oven-mitten hands on his hips, Sherlock truly lost it.  He laughed til his belly ached and his eyes felt damp. Then he pulled himself up and climbed the remaining steps, wiping his eyes and smiling for the first time in days.  

His legs didn't feel so heavy now and an amazing smell was coming at him from inside the flat.   He kissed John, chastely, then pulled him inside by the arm.  Shutting the door, he pressed John up against the wall and kissed him again, this time rather un-chastely.  They made their way through several rooms, stripping and kissing and bumping into things.  If Mrs. Hudson could hear the commotion from her own flat below, Sherlock Holmes couldn't be arsed to care. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 ". 

 

 

 

 


End file.
